


Viewpoint

by Markovia



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sex, Violence, daily life, observation, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markovia/pseuds/Markovia
Summary: Namie finds herself recognising similarities in all three of them - all shunned by society, equally shunning of it themselves. Violent. Strange obsessions. Lonely. She tears her eyes away from him and looks at the floor - stop overthinking things, she tells herself. You’re nothing like them.





	1. lovely/ugly

**Author's Note:**

> So I needed a break from Masterpiece and just sort of splurged a shitload of words into this four parter. Will be editing the other chapters over the weekend.
> 
> I've been wanting to do a longer Namie-POV fic for a while as I like exploring her character. This won't be particularly happy nor particularly sad - but hey, it's Izaya, Namie and Shizuo we're talking about here and they're not exactly nice.

He’s doing it again. He’s doing it again and he fucking well knows it annoys the shit out of her. 

 

Click. Click.  _ Clickclickclickclick- _

 

“Will you shut up!” Namie hisses, swinging around in her office chair so she can face the man sitting on the other side of the room. 

 

Izaya turns his head to look at her with a bored expression on his face. He’s lounging on the sofa clicking on of those shitty biro pens he insists that she order for him, looking as if there’s nothing to do and there aren’t piles of papers sitting on her desk waiting to be processed. Her scowl darkens when his lips rise at one side and his eyelids droop with that familiar, irritating laziness that he exudes. 

 

“I didn't say anything,” he replies, nonchalantly. It's a challenge, obviously, and she knows she shouldn't rise to it but sometimes the man is impossible to be in the same room with. 

 

“You know exactly what I mean, dirtbag,” she snaps, pointing at the pen in his hand. “Stop clicking or I will throw it out of the window.” 

 

Izaya chuckles and tosses the pen over his shoulder. It lands on the floor between them but he makes no move to pick it up, he just yawns and stretches out on the sofa so his feet and head are resting on opposite arms. Namie feels her right eye twitch in anger - he’ll ask her to pick that up later, of course he fucking will. The woman sighs and turns back to her desk. At least the clicking will stop and she can get on with her work. 

 

Then he starts whistling and her fingers curl around the papers she’s holding and crumple them messily. Her shoulders tense up and she grits her teeth as the pitch of the tuneless sound gets more grating. He’s the one paying her to work, why does he keep doing this? The stupid idiot is probably bored due to a break in between his plans, plus Heiwajima is out of town so he can't go and bug him like he usually does. After another few seconds of whistling, she picks up the glass of water next to her files and strides quickly across the space between them. The back of the sofa faces her so Izaya doesn't see her coming until it’s too late and she’s already dumped the glass of water over his head. 

 

Izaya splutters and shakes his head to get some of the water away from his eyes, then he looks up at her and scowls. His dark hair lays slick on his scalp and twists down his pale forehead in inky tendrils, water dripping from the ends onto his black shirt. 

 

“Namie,” he growls, his voice unusually gruff for someone whose voice was predominantly soft and creepy. “What the  _ fuck  _ do you think you're doing?”

 

She narrows her eyes to match his glare and drops the empty glass onto his stomach. He grunts as it hits his abdomen but one hand manages to catch it before it rolls off his body to the floor. “You're being extra irritating today. Stop it.”

 

“I was whistling, Namie. You’re so tetchy,” Izaya’s scowl dissipates and a familiar smirk reappears, so great in its smugness that it makes her want to punch him. “Get me a change of clothes, would you? I’ll clean the floor up.”

 

It's an oddly generous offer from him, thus it makes her suspicious but she rolls her eyes and heads up the stairs to his bedroom so that she can find another set of the same clothes he wears every day. Izaya’s style isn't really what she’d seen fashionable but she can't quite imagine him wearing anything else. All the dark colours suit him, they strangely make him both anonymous and stand-out at the same time. Namie sighs as she opens his walk-in wardrobe and begins to rummage for another shirt. From the amount of times he’s come home with rips, burns, tears on his clothes, she knows exactly where everything is at this point. 

 

A sound from the other side of the room draws her attention and when she pokes her head out of the closet she sees Izaya striding toward the door which leads to his en-suite bathroom. He’s not looking at her, in fact he barely acknowledges she’s there despite being the one who sent her up here. On his way to the bathroom, he peels off his wet shirt and flings it to the floor, giving little care to where it lands. Namie wrinkles her nose on instinct but she feels her cheeks flush simultaneously when she gets a good look at his naked torso. 

 

It's unfair for such a bastard to be that attractive. Izaya’s personality more than ruins his physical positives for her but she’d be an idiot to deny that he’s a good looking man. Not good-looking -  _ pretty,  _ maybe? His facial features are delicate but his body isn't. No, that's covered in scars left by knives and teeth and, more recently, cigarettes. Perhaps pretty is the wrong word. Namie exits the closet just as he’s coming out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his wet hair. He holds out his hand for the shirt laying over her forearm. 

 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

 

Namie snorts derisively. “You wish.”

 

“I know you think I’m attractive, Namie dearest,” Izaya laughs, prodding a finger in her direction. “But then again, who can blame you? With a face like thi-”

 

“Shut up or I’ll throw water on your laptop this time,” she warns, narrowing her eyes. 

 

“You chuck water on me again and I'll throw you to the wolves,” he smiles, throwing the towel onto his bed. 

 

Namie raises a brow and hands him the shirt, his threat falling on deaf ears. He’s made them so many times before and not once has he ever acted upon them. It would be stupid of her to think that he might not change his mind, he’s the most unpredictable piece of shit she’s ever met but he’s never truly hurt her. 

 

“No you won’t,” she states, folding her arms across her chest. 

 

“Are you sure about that?” Izaya asks, snidely. He runs a hand through his damp hair and scrapes it away from his face. With his fringe slicked back like that, he looks older and when his smirk drops into a hard line she could almost mistake him for a handsome professional. Almost - his eyes always give away the fact he’s  _ up _ to something. “Did you forget that I was the one who protected you after that Dollars incident? I can quite easily take it away.”

 

“I didn’t forget. I just don’t think you’ll do anything,” Namie answers, taking a step forward. She pauses for a moment, then raises her hand so that she can swipe a stray lock of hair that’s fallen onto his forehead behind his ear. It’s similar to the way she used to brush her brother’s hair away from his face after he’d bathed, she does it almost automatically. Izaya visibly tenses and his gaze hardens in a way she’s only seen when he’s staring at Heiwajima. For all his bravado, he isn’t a tactile man, the touch clearly makes him uncomfortable and it surprises her somewhat. Part of her continues because she wants to see him squirm, another just wants to explore this odd side of him further. She brushes her fingers over the shell over his ear and cups the side of his cheek gently, enjoying the way he shudders slightly. What’s possessing her, she doesn’t know, but it’s satisfying to see his eyes go hazy and to feel the way he turns his face an inch into her palm. 

 

“What’re you doing, Namie?” he breathes, voice uncharacteristically hushed.

 

“You’re ugly,” she comments, softly. Izaya blinks, not expecting that answer, but he doesn’t move. Her hand is warm, soft, he likes way it feels despite his initial hesitation. “No matter how attractive your face is - you’re still ugly.” 

 

It sounds like she’s reminding herself of that, he thinks. The woman drops her hand and moves away but he catches her wrist and makes her turn back to look at him. His eyes are wider than she’s ever seen them, his expression more innocent than it’s been since he left childhood behind and Namie finds herself more afraid of him now than she’s ever been. Nasty Izaya, horrible Izaya, that’s someone she can deal with easily because he’s just like her - a heartless shell of a person who has no real need or want for the intimacy of another. That’s the shell at least. Namie wants to draw her hand back because she doesn’t want to see any other side to Izaya, she doesn’t want to have to believe there’s anything there but the irritating, evil little shit she deals with daily. She doesn’t want him to see through cracks in her mask either, afraid that he might discover the loneliness and emptiness beneath that drive her to despair. 

 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, clasping his fingers tighter around her wrist. “But you’re just as rotten inside as I am.”

 

Namie doesn’t drop his gaze, she stares straight at him and tries to keep herself steady. It's an act, she tells herself, he’s always acting. “No-one is as rotten as you.”

 

Izaya laughs lightly and that innocent look is soon replaced when his usual smirk slides back onto his face. She’s momentarily relieved, then he pulls on her wrist to bring her closer and wraps his other arm around her waist to keep her from moving away. “Then why can I smell you festering?”

 

She pushes her free hand against his chest and though the bare contact clearly bothers him he doesn't move away. In fact, he just drags her closer and presses his face into the curve of her neck, breath soft and warm against her skin. Namie stiffens, stilling entirely when she feels the hand circling her back slip beneath her jumper and grip her waist. She regrets touching him now, worried that he’s gotten a taste for it. 

 

“Izaya-”

 

“Just let me-” he pauses. He inclines his head so that his nose presses into her hair and she draws in a sharp breath, uncertain of what he’s going to do. “-just stay there for a moment.”

 

Namie remains where she is despite her mind screaming at her to throw him off. The man doesn’t push any further, he keeps his hands still and his head motionless, until finally his fingers go slack around her wrist and he steps back. When his face comes back into view he’s frowning and his brows are knit together in the centre of his forehead. His gaze drops to the floor as he turns around and pulls the dry shirt over his head. Namie watches silently, confused as what the man is thinking. She can’t quite believe that Izaya just hugged her and she’s even more astounded that she didn’t mind that much. It was nice, he was warm.

 

“Go home,” Izaya orders. He takes his phone out of his pocket and starts scrolling his thumb down the screen, not looking at the woman standing in front of him. Without another word nor look, he saunters past her and heads out of the room, leaving her alone. She lets go of the breath she’s been holding since he held her and runs a hand through her hair, utterly confused by the man’s actions. 

 

“What the fuck?” she whispers, turning on her heel to face the door to the hall. 

 

With a sigh, she moves heads out of the bedroom and back down to her desk. Izaya’s sitting at his desk, facing away from her, but she can hear the familiar jingle of his favourite phone game ringing in the air. He’s checked out, there’s not much point in asking him what the hell just happened, so she picks up her bag, tosses her coat over her forearm and heads for the front door. 

 

“See you tomorrow Namie,” Izaya calls. 

 

She slams the door shut behind her. 

  
  


-0- 

  
  


Namie’s on her way to work, too engrossed in the book she’s reading to even notice the man who sits opposite her on the train. It's not a very busy morning, in fact they're the only two in the carriage at the moment. It's only when he stretches out his arms and yawns loudly that he grabs her attention. She blinks, not quite believing that he’s just sat there like any other person would be.  Before this she’s only ever seen him tearing through the streets after Izaya with some sort of public property in his hand. He looks up at her when he feels her staring and frowns, clearly trying to place where he knows her from. There’s a faint smell of smoke coming from him which makes her itch for a cigarette. It’s only been a month since she quit, her body is still craving the hit of tobacco that he has tucked casually behind one ear. 

 

“Oi,” he grunts, folding his arms across his chest. “Ain't you Izaya’s girlfriend?” 

 

Namie narrows her eyes and marks the place in her book before placing it back into her bag. “No, Shizuo. I'd rather cut my legs off.”

 

He seems surprised that she knows his name judging by the ways his eyes widen. “Ah. But aren't we on the line to Shinjuku?” 

 

“I work for him,” she concedes, annoyed. “Why are you on this line?”

 

Shizuo leans back in his seat and slouches down, his lean, long frame quite out of place in the tiny plastic seat. He’s wearing the same stupid bartending outfit that he always does but he’s yet to fit the bowtie and the waistcoat still hangs undone around his torso. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up despite the cold weather - Namie herself is wrapped up in a thick coat, hat and scarf. She supposes a man with such monstrous strength must use a lot of energy, perhaps he runs at a higher temperature than most. 

 

“Got work this end of town today,” he explains, turning his head to look out of the window. The Winter sun streams brightly in through the glass, casting shadows across his attractive face. His eyes are soft, mouth set in a peaceful smile, so absurdly different to his usual vein-throbbing, teeth-grinding expression that she has to blink to make sure it’s really Shizuo Heiwajima. “I can’t imagine working with the flea is nice.”

 

“He’s an irritating little shit,” Namie replies. She laces her cold hands together in her lap, chiding herself for forgetting her gloves. Her fingers are going white at the tips - she’s always had issues with circulation and it’s only gotten worse with age. “But he pays well and he lets me take overtime. I’m borderline extorting him at this point.”

 

Shizuo snorts and a pleased grin spreads across his face. “Silver linings.”

 

The woman smiles a little in return. The monster can be quite charming when he’s not destroying Ikebukuro in a fit of rage. “We’re all counting on you to kill him eventually. What’s taking you so long?”

 

“It’s not for lack of trying,” Shizuo mutters, anger clearly rumbling in his chest. “Stupid little shit won’t stay still.”

 

“Perhaps you should approach him with more of a plan than ‘roar loudly and smash’,” she sneers. He growls under his breath, top lip curling in irritation. The noise is strangely attractive, she thinks, deep and animalistic. Both Izaya and Shizuo are rather like animals, the former more serpentine, the latter raw and beastly. “You know I doubt he’d bother you as much if you didn’t react so explosive.”

 

Shizuo wrinkles his nose and Namie notices a vein beginning to bulge next to his right temple. His body is a fascinating piece of work, he could be an interesting case study to dissect. Upon first glance he looks like any other lanky blond, albeit one with a few more anger issues, but looking with a more detailed eye there’s so much more to it. His muscles are lean but they seem to quiver as he moves, tensing and relaxing as he tries to physically restrain his own monstrous strength. All his veins seem to stand out, even when he’s relatively calm, bulging in thick bands wrapped around muscle like vines around stone. There’s this off-putting aura that emanates from him, warning those around him to  _ stay the fuck away _ . Even Namie finds him a little intimidating and it makes her question what sort of person Izaya must be to try and play with Shizuo. The monster is nitroglycerin and Izaya just can’t help but dangle a match. Namie can see why people are enthralled by their fights and their relationship. Personally she can’t muster much interest, she finds their spats immature and pointless. These days, Namie finds almost everything pointless. She makes note to think more on that at a later date, perhaps when it bothers her more.  

 

“I can’t help it,” Shizuo sighs. He releases his breath, his pent up anger, all the hatred for Izaya that she empathises with, and his balled-up fists relax onto his thighs. “I’ve never been able to control myself around him. You should know better than anyone - the flea is fucking toxic. He’s been playin’ a game with me since high school - baiting me, setting me up, calling me a monster. That’s enough to drive anyone mad.”

 

Namie nods curtly, pursing her lips as she thinks of the informant, of the odd tenderness he showed her last night. Shizuo shifts in his seat and lets out another sigh, clearly sick of dwelling on the informant. She understands how he feels, how Izaya can make every moment feel like he’s watching, like their lives have been saturated and spoiled by his presence. It’s strange, Namie finds herself recognising similarities in all three of them - all shunned by society, equally shunning of it themselves. Violent. Strange obsessions. Lonely. She tears her eyes away from him and looks at the floor - stop overthinking things, she tells herself. You’re nothing like them. 

 

“You need thicker skin,” she chides, brushing her hair across her shoulder. Better to dismiss both these two creatures than sympathise. No, that would be going too far. “Izaya’s just a nasty little boy with a magnifying glass.”

 

“How come you work for him if you hate him so much?” he frowns, voice dropping into a more serious tone. “Is he blackmailin’ you or something like that?”

 

“Something like that,” she answers. “But don’t think that Izaya’s controlling me. I threw water over him yesterday because he wouldn’t stop clicking his pen.”

 

Shizuo gives her a weary smile but she doesn’t see, she’s too preoccupied with glaring at the floor. They sit in silence for a little while, Shizuo watching the buildings outside pass by, Namie trying to warm her fingers. The train eventually screeches to a halt and the blond stands, placing the cigarette behind his ear into his mouth. He peers down at Namie, then reaches into his trouser pocket and throws a rolled up piece of material at her.   

 

“You need those more than I do,” he states, stepping toward the door. 

 

Namie frowns and unbundles the cloth in her lap to find a pair of black gloves. They’re an odd material, slippery as silk and incredibly light, they almost feel like water. “Are you sure?”

 

When she looks back up the train doors have already slid shut and Shizuo Heiwajima has disappeared.

 

-0-

  
  


“What’s this?”

 

“Whiskey.”

 

Namie raises a brow and places down the papers she’s been studying to look up at the man beside her leaning on the desk. He’s holding glasses in both hands, with one outstretched toward her. This is the first time he’s spoken to her all day apart from a brief ‘ _ good morning, get me coffee’  _ when she first walked in. She wonders if he knows she spoke with Heiwajima this morning, if perhaps that’s why he’s being so ignorant today. “Why are you giving me whiskey?”

 

“It’s cold out,” Izaya replies, gently placing the glass next to the discarded papers. It _ is  _ cold outside but the informant’s apartment is toasty thanks to the top of the range heating system installed beneath the floor. He’s lit a fire in the enormous grate by her desk as well, so they hardly need to warm up any further. Her hands are finally back to a healthy shade, Shizuo’s strange gloves were excellent at protecting her fingers. The gloves are stuffed into her satchel - she took them off before entering the apartment, Izaya would only comment if he recognised them. Another typical Winter night, dark by five-thirty and generally miserable for those who long for the warmth of the Sun. Namie doesn’t mind Winter, she likes the idea of snow and thick jumpers and spiced hot chocolate and Izaya seems fairly comfortable in the cold as well. 

 

“So?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. Izaya pushes himself away from the table and goes to sit in an armchair on the other side of the room. “It’s hardly freezing in here.”

 

Izaya rolls his eyes and shoots her a glare. “Then consider it an excuse to get drunk.”

 

“Why would I want to get drunk with you?” she sneers, spinning her office chair round to face him. Regardless of her distaste, she picks up the glass and holds the rim lightly between her fingertips. He grins and holds his drink up as if to ‘ _ cheers’ _ her glass from across the room. 

 

“Because this is expensive,” he answers. Namie clicks her tongue at his comment but takes a sip and makes a sound of approval at the taste. The grin stays in place but his eyes soften a little, he seems to relax more into the cushions behind him as if her acceptance of the drink  _ means  _ something. “And because I have something to celebrate.”

 

Namie raises a brow and licks her bottom lip to lap up an errant drop of whiskey. Izaya’s gaze dips to her mouth briefly but he looks back up at her as soon as he catches himself. “What was it this time? Theft, fraud, murder?”

 

“Always thinking the worst of me, Namie,” he chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. He rests his cheek on his elbow and balances the bottom of the glass on his knee. “If you must know, it's because I managed to make a minute but very important development today.”

 

“Development in what?” Namie replies. She stands and moves to sit on the sofa opposite him so that she can hear him better. “One of your gang-related plans.”

 

He nods and finishes his drink, placing the glass back onto the coffee table so that he can pour himself another. “Indeed. But I won’t let anything loose until after Christmas. ‘Tis the Season and all that.”

 

“How  _ kind  _ of you.”

 

“I’m a veritable saint.”

 

The woman laughs harshly and pushes her now empty glass toward him so that he can refill it alongside his. They both settle back into the cushions, alcohol in hand, their feet propped up on the coffee table. For a moment they sit in silence, then Izaya snorts and bursts into a fit of high-pitched giggles. The sudden noise startles Namie and she jerks, causing her to spill whiskey over her lap. 

 

“Dammit!” she snaps, putting the glass down so she can wipe the liquid with her hands. She turns her angry gaze up to Izaya, who’s staring back with amusement in his eyes. “What the fuck around you laughing at?”

 

His lips quiver like he’s about to burst out into giggles again, then he points at their feet in turn. “Look! We’re wearing the same slippers!”

 

“The-” she pauses and looks down at their feet to see that they are in fact both wearing the same bright purple slippers. “Oh, yeah, I suppose- but why the hell is that so funny? Moron.”

 

“You’re so mean.”

 

Namie takes a sip of her drink as he settles and his excess energy seems to dissipate in the air. Slowly, he sinks back into the armchair and his eyes darken, clearly in thought. She rests her glass on the arm of the sofa and observes him quietly, taking in the sharp edges of his body and the angles of his face and the way his skin looks a little less sickly in the light of the fire. When he turns his head to look out of the window at the night sky she notices a thick purple mark on the side of his throat. The stain dips below his collar and runs up to the bottom of his ear, dark and clear. How she managed to miss it all day is beyond her but, then again, Izaya is good at keeping secrets. 

 

“What happened to your neck?” she asks, flatly. Her tone is intentional, she doesn’t want him thinking she’s actually concerned about him. “That wasn’t there yesterday.”

 

When he looks back, she sees more. He’s holding his glass in his left hand because the fingers of his right are crooked and splaying out at odd angles. His right eye is ever so slightly swollen, just below the brow, and there’s the hint of a lesser bruise yellowing the hollow of the socket. He’s hunched over to one side, clearly protecting his torso - a few broken ribs, she presumes. It’s strange how he manages to so masterfully mask himself with bravado, then again Namie herself has always done something very similar with snark. 

 

“Oh nothing of note, Nam-”

 

“Quit the fucking bullshit for one minute, would you?” she snaps, exasperated with his never ending lies. “You're hurt.”

 

He frowns and looks down at his injured hand. “Shizu-chan was in an especially foul mood today.”

 

“What did you do?” she asks, finishing off her drink. The two men must have run into one another in Shinjuku. She’s not surprised. 

 

“Why would you assume I did something wrong?” Izaya pouts. 

 

“Because you’re you,” she answers, scathingly. “And you’re obsessed with that guy.”

 

Izaya’s expression darkens into a scowl and he waves a hand at her dismissively. “I’m not obsessed with that monster. I loathe him.”

 

Namie scoffs and shakes her head incredulously. “It doesn’t come across like that, idiot. You’re always trying to get his attention. If I didn't know that heart of yours is withered and hate filled, I'd say you want to fuck him.”

 

The informant flinches and for a moment she thinks he’s going to throw his drink over her. Instead he narrows his eyes and places the glass down so that he can move toward her. Namie leans back a little when he bends at the waist so he can look her in the eye. He stretches out one arm and places his hand on the back of the sofa by her shoulder, using it as leverage when he moves his face closer to hers. There’s a pause where he simply stares at her, long enough to unnerve her. When she opens her mouth to tell him to  _ fuck off,  _ he raises his chin and presses his lips against hers. 

 

Namie’s initially too shocked to move, she just sits with her eyes wide open, one hand tightly clenching around her thigh. When she takes in a breath through her nose the smell of him pervades the air and it jerks her back to reality. Izaya is  _ kissing  _ her. The man seems to notice her change in demeanour and moves back, catching her wrist just before her open palm collides with his cheek. 

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she hisses, snatching her wrist out of his grasp. Izaya stands upright and gives her a wink before turning away and heading toward the kitchen. 

 

“Proving that it’s not Shizu-chan I want to fuck,” he answers, amusement thick in his tone. “I fancy takeaway tonight, what cuisine do you fancy?” 

 

Namie watches him until he turns into the hallway, face flushed red a deep shade of pink. Slowly, she raises a hand and touches her fingertips to her lips, unable to believe what’s just happened. But her mouth is still wet from his, she can still smell him and taste him. Namie drops her hand and calls after him, nearly spitting due to how angry he’s made her. “Try that again and I’ll bite your tongue off, dirtbag!” 

 

He laughs and the sound echoes unpleasantly around the building. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. alone/lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient! Really enjoying writing this one, characters studies have always been an interest of mine. Should be out with the next chapter of Blame next, then Poisoned Waters, then Masterpiece. Really stuck on the last part of Doubt so that may still be some time.

Namie went home after Izaya kissed her, thoroughly disgusted with the taste of him clinging to her lips. She lives alone in a flat in a nice part of Ikebukuro. The apartment is wonderful, plush for someone her age but Yagiri Pharmaceuticals paid well, Izaya pays well, so it’s well within her means. She’d purchased it hoping that Seiji would move with her but, of course, that didn’t work out. It feels too empty at times, so she always has the television blaring loud in the main room and the radio on in her bedroom. It's okay. It's okay. Sometimes the loneliness creeps up on her, usually when she’s cooking another meal for one or staring absently at the ceiling as she’s trying to sleep in the centre of her huge bed. It’s gotten so excruciating that she’s started cooking dinner at Izaya’s house so that she’s not alone for the entire stretch of the evening. Her life must have really gotten shit if she’s willing to spend time with  _ him _ .

 

Seiji never calls. She’s come to realise he never will. Seiji moved in with Mika. Namie tried to take the week off to get her head straight but Izaya didn't let her -  _ ‘you’ve got to get over this obsession with your brother’.  _ She slapped him that day. With every day that passes, each voicemail left for her brother, each sleepless night, each cutting remark made by the informant, Namie feels her enthusiasm for life slip further and further away. The girl who was so eager to learn, who was so amazed by medicine and the human body, who had brains and a solid love of family, was sinking into the doldrums and it was growing harder and harder to pull herself out. Loneliness had replaced enthusiasm, snark replaced passion, emptiness replaced love. Instead, the world saw a sullen, dark-haired woman with bags under her eyes and a strange, cold emptiness to her expression. Someone who looked a little like the woman who used to be the head of Yagiri Pharmaceuticals, but, ’ _ no, it couldn't be _ ’. She never attempts to confront the problem, she never asks for help. No, revealing her crippling mindset would only make people think she was weak and far be it from Namie to be seen as such. Better to keep it shut away. Solitary life was not so unpleasant; she tended to glide through each day, barely speaking, head stuck in the mountain of files Izaya gives her. Her life isn't really anything, just empty.

 

It's been empty for a long time. 

 

Namie locks the door behind her and moves into the living room, shedding her coat and dropping her bag along the way. She needs to bathe, needs to get the informant’s dirt off her lips. As she passes the television, she stabs a finger onto the power button and relaxes a little as the sound of the evening news fills the room. The woman stops off in the kitchen on the way to the bathroom to pour herself a large glass of wine, God knows she needs it after the day she’s had. Slowly, she meanders from the kitchen to the bathroom, sipping from the glass as she walks. With a sigh, she turns on the light so that she can prepare a bath for herself. There’s a small radio atop the sink counter which she switches on, just to fill the room with distracting noise. 

 

The woman turns the tap and sits on the edge of the tub, taking occasional sips from the glass. The water gushes from the faucet and splatters noisily against the bottom of the bath. As steam starts to fill the room she stands and sets her wine down, so that she can undress. When she’s shed all her clothes, she sighs and reaches for the large bottle of bubble bath on the counter. Namie moves back to the bath, wine in hand, and checks the temperature with her little finger. Bathing has always been her preferred method of relaxation. There’s nothing quite like closing her eyes, slipping under the warm, perfumed water and drifting off to some imaginary land. Some place far better than this. She empties the last of the bottle into the water, reminding herself to buy more on the way home tomorrow. Bubbles spring up from amongst the froth as she lowers herself into the water and she shuts off the tap as she hits the bottom of the tub.

 

The water is verging on too hot but she likes it like that, the slight burn keeps her from falling asleep in the tub. Namie sighs and takes another gulp of wine before placing the glass on the edge of the bath. She sinks deep into the water, letting it soak into her scalp until it’s only her face that’s dry. Eventually she bends her knees and allows the water to cover her face. She remains beneath the water until the heat starts to burn the tender skin of her lips and the breath in her lungs wiles away, then she gently pushes against the end of the tub with her toes and sits upright. Her hair sticks to her face, so she rakes it back with her nails and draws in a much needed breath as she opens her eyes. As she relaxes back against the curve of the bath so that she can rest her head on the edge, she finally goes over the events of the day. The entire journey home was spent on autopilot, mind blank of any thoughts but ‘ _ go in this direction’  _ and  _ ‘remember to wear a hat tomorrow, it’s even colder’  _ \- inane things that stopped her from thinking about everything else _. _

 

It’s only now that she scrunches her eyes shut and grits her teeth to stop herself from crying. How  _ dare  _ he kiss her like that? Namie doesn’t doubt for a second that Izaya thinks he’s entitled to shove his tongue down her throat because ‘ _ he’s the boss’.  _ She hopes it’s my because he’s actually interested in her because Izaya’s  _ interest  _ wasn't at all desirable. The very thought makes her want to hit something, so she drains the rest of the glass of wine instead. It’s either that or he’s playing games with her because he wants to fuck with her head. That seems more likely, the nasty, heartless bastard little child. Izaya’s always playing, he lives for games and trickery. As if he’d actually like her, as if he can _ feel _ anything. Namie slams the side of her fist against the bath and growls under her breath. Part of her wants to tell him to go fuck himself, punch him and hand in her notice. 

 

But another part realises her position. Izaya isn't just an absurdly large paycheck, he’s protection. That's probably the part of their relationship that she loathes the most, the fact that he is the one keeping the wolves at bay. She knows quite well that there are people out for her blood. It’s something she’s accepted, plenty of her actions warrant such a sentence, but she’d rather remain alive for the time being. She bangs her fist against the side of the bath again, then again, grunting over and over. 

 

“I hate you, I hate you, I  _ hate  _ you,” she snarls. One last hit lands, then she drops her hand into the water and grinds her teeth back and forth. Perhaps one day she’ll escape all this but she can't help but think that Izaya won't let her. He’s smothering, everywhere, suffocating. Namie clutches her wet hair and tugs aggressively on the strands. Let it end, she thinks, let it end soon. 

 

 

-0- 

 

“Manage to throw any more water on the flea?” 

 

Namie looks up from her book to see Heiwajima entering the carriage. She’s exhausted, sleep didn't come easy last night so she doesn't reply at first,  her thoughts still bleary. There are two other people on the train today but no-one is sitting at her end, so he manages to get the same seat opposite her. It's even colder than yesterday but he’s only added a thick burgundy scarf to his usual attire, his sleeves are even rolled up to his elbows. She stares at him incredulously as he sits down opposite her, shaking her head in disbelief. 

 

“Aren't you freezing?” she asks, ignoring his question. “You're not even wearing a coat.”

 

“Nah, never really get cold,” Shizuo shakes his head as he leans back in his seat and stretches his legs out in front of him. 

 

Namie reaches into her bag and pulls out the pair of gloves he lent her the previous day. She’s brought her own today, a plush pair of leather ones that Seiji bought her a long time ago. They’re a little worn, she’s had to stitch the wrist edges a number of times before but she’s too sentimental to throw them out. 

 

“Here,” she says, throwing them across the carriage onto his lap. “Thank you for lending them to me.” 

 

He nods and tucks them into his trouser pocket. “No problem.”

 

“What are they made of?” she asks, raising a brow. “They're such an odd material, even I couldn't place them.” 

 

“Even you?” he repeats, a teasing smirk rising on his face. 

 

Namie purses her lips at the query. “I have a background in chemistry. Materials, synthetic or otherwise, interest me.”

 

“Huh,” he answers. He looks impressed, not that she cares. “Pretty and clever, quite the lady.”

 

“Are you going to answer my question or drool like a schoolboy?” she sneers. His eyes widen and the same odd flicker of innocence that she’d seen on Izaya passes across his face. Namie wants to laugh at their immaturity but she keeps her expression flat. These powerful creatures, how simple it is to reduce them to such softness. Namie ignores the rational voice in her mind that tells her she used to be exactly the same whenever Seiji looked at her. 

 

“Uh, Celty made ‘em for me,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck with his hand. “They're the same stuff as her suit. That shadow stuff.” 

 

Namie raises her eyebrows in surprise. “The Dullahan made them? How interesting.”

 

“I guess s-”

 

“Can I have them back for a while?” she asks, holding out a hand. “I'd love to study them a little closer.” 

 

The blond considers her question for a moment then shrugs and a smirk rises on his face. “Sure. But in return you have to go for a drink with me later.” 

 

It's Namie’s turn to look taken aback now. Shizuo looks at her expectantly as if he’s actually interested in her reaction, so she huffs a sigh and turns her nose up at him. Her answer is stupid, it will obviously come back to bite her in this ass but she’s bored and lonely and Heiwajima can be good looking when he isn't covered in blood. It’s better than drinking with Izaya, at least. “Fine, but you're buying.”

 

“Then we’ll be drinking the cheap shit. What time do you get off?” he asks, clearly pleased with himself if the smug look on his face is anything to go by. The smugness is mildly offset by the softness of his eyes. There's misplaced excitement there that Namie almost feels bad for. Shizuo is rather sweet for a man who can tear someone in half with very little effort, it would do him no go to get involved with people like her and Izaya. She tenses at the thought and reminds herself that she is never to compare herself to Izaya  _ ever _ again. 

 

“Seven, unless Izaya does something weird again.” 

 

“Weird?”

 

Namie waves her hand, ignoring the question. “Meet me at Shinjuku station.”

 

“Sure,” Shizuo answers. He smiles softly and places the gloves into her outstretched hand. “Seven.”

 

After placing her book and the gloves away, she looks at him curiously and notices that there’s a number of thin cuts on his face that weren’t there yesterday. His hands too, are covered in the same slivers of red. Namie purses her lips and sighs, almost certain of where they came from. She points to her own face and taps her cheek with her forefinger. 

 

“Izaya?” she asks, frowning. 

 

Shizuo nods and she can hear his teeth grit from across the carriage. “Yep. Little shit and his knives.”

 

“He looked rather beaten up last night,” she sighs. Their fights bore her, the men are far more interesting apart than together. “You’re just as bad as each other.”

 

“How’s that?” Shizuo scoffs, mouth dipping into a scowl. “I don’t start this shit. Izaya’s the one who provokes me.”

 

Namie clicks her tongue derisively and folds her arms across her chest. “You don’t need to retaliate.”

 

“Neither do you,” he counters, narrowing his eyes at her. 

 

She opens her mouth, then closes it again and frowns. “Touché.” 

  
  


-0-

  
  


The strange look Izaya’s been giving her all day makes her think he’s bugged her. It should be a paranoid thought but this is Izaya Orihara and the things he’ll do to get a little information break the bounds of possibility. After enduring the third hour of his gaze heavy on her back, she spins around in her seat and scowls at him. 

 

“What?” she snaps, throwing her pen onto the desk behind her. “What are you looking at, you little shit?” 

 

Izaya smiles lazily and leans his cheek against his knuckles. “I'm just wondering when you’re going to return that kiss, Namie.” 

 

She balks and turns back to her work, though she’d much rather stomp across the room and sock him in the face. The anger from yesterday is still boiling inside her but she thinks she has a hold of it, she can stay calm,  _ stay calm _ . The clock on her desk reads six thirty six - she only has to hold on a little longer. Izaya laughs and she hears his chair roll back, then the soft sound of him padding across the floor. A hand rests on her shoulder and he leans down so his mouth is close to her ear. 

 

“Or are you going to give it to Shizu-chan instead?” 

 

Namie tenses and shoves him back a little so she can face him fully. He’s still close, his thighs brush her knees and his hand is resting on the desk in an obvious stance of power. 

 

“Are you following me?” she hisses. He chuckles again so she angrily grabs a fistful of his shirt collar and drags him down to her level. “Answer me before I-”

 

“Scary,” he laughs, grin widening. “You're terrifying! Maybe that's why the monster likes you. Beauty and the beast, right?” 

 

She punches him on the cheek, hard enough to send him stumbling backward, then he trips and falls on his ass at her feet. Izaya raises a hand and presses it over his reddened face as he turns his gaze up to Namie, who is glaring down at him with murder in her eyes. He looks surprised, then his mouth curves into a smile and he looks almost pleased. 

 

“Punching your employer?” he laughs. He slowly stands and turns his sore cheek toward her so that she can see the patch of red that's clearly going to bruise. “Quite the faux pas.”

 

“Are you following me?” she asks again, crossing her arms over her chest. 

 

Izaya grins and tilts his head gently to the side. “Of course not, Namie. You think I'm interested in your boring life? Shizu-chan told Shinra, Shinra told me. It's as simple as that.”

 

Namie let out a sharp breath and screws her eyes shut for a moment, desperately trying to reign in her anger. A few seconds pass and she opens them again to find Izaya standing again, lips just a few centimetres from hers. Her hand shoots out and pushes his chest back, forcing his head away. Izaya chuckles though his eyes darken with annoyance. 

 

“Do that again and I’ll cut your balls off,” she hisses, sitting back down in her chair. She starts to gather her belongings and stuffs them into her bag. “Stop playing your shitty little games with me.” 

 

Izaya scowls and turns away from her to head back to his down desk. He clicks his tongue as he sits back down and spins his chair round and round. “Your aggression is starting to irritate me. Why can't you just accept that I like you?” 

 

Namie bolts upright and stomps her way to the door, pulling her coat on over her arms. “Because you don't, you're trying to fuck with me. I know you, I’ve seen you do it a thousand times before. See you tomorrow!”

 

The door slams shut behind her. She waits for a minute but he doesn't seem to follow, so she lets out the breath she's been holding. It comes out as a gurgled sob and she claps a hand over her mouth to stop the cries that follow from being heard. Namie rushes to the elevator and prays that it arrives before Izaya hears her messily crying over his boyish admission of affection. 

  
  



	3. safe/danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient guys! I'm having so much fun writing this/Namie is kind of a weird therapy for me. Enjoy! The next chapter is just a lot of filth. So. There we go.

“How was work?”

 

Namie sets her glass of wine down and swallows the liquid in her mouth. “Can we not talk about work?”

 

Shizuo shrugs and picks up his drink, some bright red, strawberry monstrosity that looks out of place in the hands of ‘Ikebukuro’s Strongest’. Namie’s drinking red wine, a dark rich Pinot Noir that’s rather nice considering Shizuo promised her ‘cheap shit’ on the train. The bar is a quaint, quiet place, one she’s never been to before but likes the feel of. They’re tucked away in a booth by a misted window, an area lit by a dim lamp in one corner and a number of candles jammed into empty wine bottles. The furniture is predominantly wooden and entirely mismatched but there is an archaic charm about the place that eased a little of the tension in her shoulders.

 

“Fine by me, work talk is crap anyway. All I got to offer is stories about mobsters and scumbags,” he complains, rolling his eyes. He’s already taken his waistcoat off and dropped it onto the seat beside him, but he continues on to remove his bow tie and unbutton his stiff collar.

 

She chuckles and folds one leg over another. “Sounds a lot like my job.”

 

“Do you remember the moment you got dragged into the underworld?” he asks, resting his cheek on the top of his knuckles.

 

Namie notices that the skin across his bones is ragged and torn. She wonders if he’s seen Izaya today as well. His question sinks in and she nods. Her reply skirts around her involvement in human trafficking, that seems like it’ll be too much for Shizuo to swallow. Izaya’s the only person she knows who wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. He didn't bat an eyelid. “The day Izaya asked if I would be his secretary. You?”

 

“I can’t remember,” he replies, looking down into his drink. He purses his lips as if in thought. “Seems so easy to drop into it though. Like, one day I woke up and realised that I hang out with gang members and headless bikers. I beat the shit outta people to make money. And I realised it’s so much harder to get out of the underworld than to get into it.”

 

She sits silently, mulling over the oddly observant comment he’s just made. It’s true, she nods in silent agreement. There must have been a time before Izaya, before the unpleasantness she caused at Yagiri Pharmaceuticals, but she can’t remember it now. Everything before seems murky, clouded by the events of the last four years. Perhaps this is why her view of Seiji has slowly changed, perhaps this is why she’s become so bitter and hateful.

 

Shizuo rummages in the pocket of his trousers and retrieves a tatty box of cigarettes, which he throws onto the table next to his cocktail. As he slides one of the tubes from the packet, he glances up at her and his brow furrows slightly. “I know you’re gonna tell me to fuck off and you’ve every right to but, I dunno, you seem really stressed out. Is everything okay?”

 

Namie stiffens up and her fingers grip the stem of her glass a little tighter. For a moment she considers acting as he thinks she will but the words ‘ _fuck off’_ never end up leaving her mouth. She’s distracted by the genuine look of concern on his face. All of his expressions look ever so slightly disgruntled, regardless of emotion - while his eyes are open and honest, his nose is wrinkled and his mouth pulled up into a grimace. Namie can’t help but laugh lightly but soon the noise devolves into something more dour, a gentle gasping that she quietens with a large gulp of wine.

 

“Everything’s fine,” she mumbles, looking down into her glass. Slowly, a strained smile spreads across her face and she peers back up at him through her lashes. “I just have a lot on at work.”

 

Shizuo lights the end of his cigarette and takes a short drag, dropping the lighter back onto the table. “I thought you said no work talk.”

 

Namie narrows her eyes at him. “I meant ‘no _Izaya_ talk’.”

 

“Fair enough,” he comments. Smoke drips from between his lips and settles in the air between them. “The less breath wasted on Izaya the better.”

 

She hums and tries to put the informant out of her head. “I’ll drink to that.”

 

They clink their glasses together and smirk at one another before they take a drink. Namie places her glass back on the table and reaches out a hand. He seems to follow her drift and flicks the box of cigarettes toward her with his forefinger. As ever, his strength gets the better of him and the box flies across the surface and hits her square in the chest. Namie barely bats an eyelid but Shizuo grimaces and flushes red nonetheless.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He slides the lighter across the table slowly, as if afraid of repeating the incident. “Forget my own strength sometimes.”

 

Namie shrugs and places a cigarette in between her lips, leaning over a candle to light the end rather than using the Zippo. She almost groans in relief as the tobacco hits her lungs, it’s been too long since she last had one of these and the sense of relaxation it brings almost makes her want to smoke the whole box in front of her at the same time.

 

Shizuo grins knowingly. “Tryin’ to quit?”

 

“Yeah,” she answers, smoke billowing from between her lips. “I find it harder it control myself when I’m around alcohol.”

 

“Don't we all,” he laughs. The sound, coupled with the pleasant grin on his face is charming, so much so that her own lips twitch out of their perpetual scowl into a thin smile. “So uh, Namie. Tell me about yourself. Sorry, I know that's a shitty thing to ask but uh, at least it's straight forward, right?”

 

 _Tell me about yourself._ That usually encompasses occupation, hobbies, family, perhaps favourite forms of entertainment. Namie finds she has nothing to say. She doesn't care about her job, her family don't want her in their lives and she doesn't _do_ anything worth talking about. Her brain grasps at straws.

 

“I read a lot,” she mumbles, looking down into her glass. “And I play chess.” _With Izaya._ “And I watch a lot of horror movies.” _With Izaya._ “Occasionally I make hotpot with friends.” _You make hotpot for him, liar._

 

Shizuo seems content enough with the lies and she wonders if he’s stupid enough to believe everything he hears. No, she reasons, he can’t be - he never fell for Izaya’s smarmy facade and he’s the expert when it comes to spinning lies off his silver tongue. An unpleasant squirming feeling starts to happen in her stomach as she replays the things she’s just said in her mind. Surely she has some other interests, other friends, another _life_ outside of Izaya? There must be something. She looks up at Shizuo and swallows. They’re both consumed by the informant, it’s almost like he’s poisoned them. Namie takes another drag of the cigarette and circles the smoke through her lungs, out of her mouth, then back up her nose. Shizuo raises his eyebrows in surprise and lets out another laugh.

 

“That looks cool,” he exclaims, gesturing at his own mouth. “How’d you do that?”

 

“It’s called an ‘Irish Waterfall’. A guy at University taught me how to do it,” Namie smiles and blows the smoke out of her nose. She leans against her palm and observes the burning end of the cigarette, thinking back on the first few years of medical school. Back then she had friends, lots of friends. She had ambition and plans and interests. “He was from Ireland, a very loud guy who filled the ‘heavy drinking’ stereotype rather well. You sort of open your mouth and breath back up through your nostrils immediately.”

 

Shizuo takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out between his lips. He successfully sucks it back into his nose and chuckles as the smoke tickles the back of his throat. Namie smiles softly and taps the end of her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. The smoldering tip crumbles into the cold pile of ash and the fire dies into grey.

  


-0-

 

The rest of the night is pleasant. They talk about generic topics, films, books, music. He’s better read than she initially thought, but then the only estimation of his intelligence she had came from Izaya. In his own way, he’s rather eloquent. Nothing compared to the verbose way Izaya speaks, of course, but he’s thoughtful, he _listens._ Namie enjoys talking with him, it’s been awhile since anyone asked her about - well, her. She tells him about her time in University, about Yagiri Pharma and the progress she made there. She even talks about Seiji. He responds by talking about growing up with his bizarre strength, about his current friends and his love of the city. Hours tick by. They don’t talk about Izaya. Namie sinks a bottle of wine but barely notices. The night has been fun, it’s not a date, it’s not even friends meeting to chat but it’s comfortable. Shizuo is easy to talk to and she finds his presence makes her want to talk. It’s odd, she barely knows him after all.

 

Shizuo leaves around ten. He tells her he needs to get up early the next morning to see his brother to the airport. She’s heard of Kasuka Heiwajima before, from Izaya, but she’s never put together that he’s _that_ Yuuhei Hanejima. It must be annoying to have someone that popular as your brother, she thinks, but then again Shizuo himself is infamous within Ikebukuro and he doesn’t seem like the type to care about those sorts of things. The way Shizuo spoke about Kasuka was rather sweet, strange to come from the mouth of a violent brute. Still, nothing surprises Namie these days.

 

They exchange numbers before he leaves and he asks politely if they can meet again another day that week, a request to which she agrees. It’s been pleasant and she has nothing else to do, so why not? She doesn’t think about Izaya. Okay, maybe she does but she quickly casts him out of her head. What are her intentions with Shizuo, she thinks. He’s attractive sure but she isn’t looking for a relationship - she cuts herself off when that thought pops into her head. That’s something to mull over when she’s less drunk. Namie remains in the bar for one last drink, not willing to go back to her empty apartment quite yet. It’s a fairly quiet place and the booth space is out of the way enough that she can peacefully read the book in her bag. The words are a little blurry and she’ll probably have to read the chapter again tomorrow but it’s better than nothing.  

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

 

Namie frowns and drags her noisy phone out of her pocket to silence it. There’s only one person who would be texting her this late in the evening and - yep, of course it is. She groans and opens the message from the number simply labelled ‘ASSHOLE’. Before she’s even had a chance to read the contents, someone drops down into the seat Shizuo had previously been occupying and places another glass of wine in front of her. When she looks up from her phone, Izaya’s grinning back at her. Namie quickly snaps her phone shut and shoves it clumsily back into her bag, along with the book, before glaring across the table at him.

 

“What are you doing here?” she snaps, glancing down at the glass of wine. He’s got one for himself too, resting on the surface in front of his laced fingers. “How did you know I was here?”

 

“I fancied a drink,” Izaya replies, nonchalantly. “I saw Shizu-chan leaving so I thought I’d keep you company.”

 

Namie scowls and wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Liar.”

 

Izaya shrugs and his grin widens at one side, curving upward into a smirk. “You got me. People on the chat rooms like to talk about Shizu-chan. They said they saw him going into this bar with a woman, blah blah blah - now I’m here.”

 

“You’re a creepy stalker, you know that?” Namie seethes, snatching up the glass he’s bought for her. She makes a face at the wine and then glares back up at him. “This better be good.”

 

“Only the best for you, Namie.”

 

It _is_ good and she hates him for having excellent taste. Izaya’s a man who likes the finer things, so she expected no less but it still bugs her. She doesn't want to like it, she doesn't want to like anything he gives her. After a large gulp, the alcohol she’s drunk that night begins to hit and the room seems to grow intolerably warm. She blinks slowly, trying to get her head together. It proves more difficult than expected and her eyelids droop heavily.

 

“Namie?”

 

Izaya’s voice pulls her out of the haze for a moment. For once he isn't smirking, he’s staring at her with concern in his off-putting burgundy eyes. The expression makes her feel uneasy, her stomach rolls and her guts squeeze and she wishes she’d bothered to eat something before drinking this much. Izaya places his glass down and stands, crossing the floor so he's beside her. He places a hand gently on her shoulder and it does nothing to help the nausea she’s feeling.

 

“Are you okay?” Izaya asks, carefully. He places a crooked finger beneath her chin and turns her head up so that she’s facing him. “Do you want to eat something?”

 

Namie bats his hand away softly, then runs her fingers over her face and nods. The room is spinning slightly, food would certainly help. It might make her mind a little clearer too, as right now she can't stop thinking how _good_ Izaya looks in the dim lights. The flickering candles cause the sharp angles of his face to be lined with shadow, giving him a somewhat inhuman quality. He seems more like a statue than a real being. If Izaya notices her staring he doesn't mention it for once, he just turns away as she’s gathering her belongings and chugs his glass of wine down in a few swift gulps.

 

“We’re very close to my apartment still,” he comments, watching as she clumsily pulls on her coat. Namie looks up at him and narrows her eyes, rational thoughts still prepared to challenge him despite her inebriation. Izaya raises his hands in surrender. “Jeez, we don't have to go there. I just thought you could eat some food and I'll make tea so you can sober up before you go home.”

 

“No funny business?” she asks, warily.

 

Izaya raises his hand and curls his fingers into a sign. “Scout’s Honour.”

 

The woman splutters and shakes her head. “You were never a Scout.”

 

“True, but I always liked the uniform,” he sighs, dramatically. As she stumbles around the table he offers an arm. Instead of taking it she shoves him forward and he turns in the direction of the exit, laughing highly. “What kind of lady turns down such a kind offer from a young gentleman?”

 

“You're not a gentleman,” she slurs, irritably.

 

Izaya glances over his shoulder and sends her a nasty smirk. “And you're no lady.”

 

They walk back to Izaya's apartment and she hates that it feels more like home than anywhere else.

  
  
  



	4. blame/absolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about Izaya and Namie. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Izaya orders pizza. They eat in relative silence, late-night news channel blaring loudly in the background. Namie tears through three slices rapidly, not realising how hungry she’d been until the first bite. Thankfully the cheese and dough settle her queasy stomach and the room stops spinning. Satiated, she leans back into the sofa cushions and observes the informant as he eats. It must be all that running from Shizuo that keeps Izaya slender and fit. It's certainly not his diet because the man eats like a pig. He looks up at her from his position on the floor and smiles, a slice of pizza in one hand, milkshake in another. There’s red sauce on his chin. Namie doesn't tell him because she doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself. In fact, she rather likes it. 

 

“Feeling better?” Izaya asks. He places the straw in the milkshake into his mouth and sucks. There’s not enough left in the cup so the action just makes a loud gurgling sound. 

 

Namie winces and kicks his leg. “Stop that, it's annoying.”

 

Izaya rolls his eyes but concedes and places the paper cup onto the coffee table. He relaxes back and lays flat out on the floor, lacing his arms behind his head. She’s sat on the sofa above him, peering down as if he’s a particularly disgusting rodent. “Everything I do annoys you.”

 

“That’s because you’re generally annoying,” she retorts. She leans forward to place her bottle of lemonade down on the table next to Izaya’s empty cup. He looks up at her from the floor and grins. It’s a boyish smile, not unlike those on Shizuo’s face earlier that night. For some reason it doesn’t quite fit on Izaya’s face, the sharp angles and shadows that line his features make all of his smiles look devious. “And yes, I’m feeling better.”

 

Izaya moves his hands over his stomach and laces his fingers together. “That’s good. We wouldn’t want you falling drunkenly into the gutter, would we?”

 

“As if. I’m capable of taking care of myself. I would have just had some water and got some food on the train h-” she pauses and kicks him again. “What time is it?”

 

Izaya huffs and elbows her calf in return, before checking his watch. “It’s eleven thirty.”

 

“Shit, shit - what time is the last train back to Ikebukuro?” she panics, grabbing her bag from the floor. Hastily she rummages through her bag for her phone but halts when Izaya shoves his mobile in her face. 

 

“Ten to one,” Izaya states. He gives her a lazy smile and slips his phone back into his pocket. “You’ve got time. Or get a cab, I pay you enough.”

 

Namie relaxes and places her bag onto the seat beside her. She runs a hand through her hair and lets out the breath she has been holding in her panic. “I shouldn’t be here, I need to go home.”

 

The informant rolls his head to look at her. For once he isn’t smiling, he’s gazing at her with the same look as the moment in his bedroom, with wide eyes and a slightly confused twist on his mouth. “You come here almost every day, Namie. There’s no reason to feel uncomfortable.”

 

The effects of alcohol linger, it makes words fall easier from her mouth than usual. “Of course I feel uncomfortable - you’re here.”

 

Izaya sighs and sits upright, propping himself up on the heels of his hands. There’s dissatisfaction written all over his face, which surprises her. Usually he constantly acts with false amusement, with that shitty bravado that she hates so much. His mask is clearly slipping off and she finds that she likes these glimmers of honesty even less. Namie doesn’t want to know more about this man, she doesn’t want to feel any sort of connection with him past employer and employee but when he’s  _ staring  _ at her like that it makes her think he might be the only person who understands how maddening it is to be so fucking lonely. 

 

“Why do you hate me so much?” he murmurs, drawing his heels up so that he can cross his legs. 

 

Namie gathers her coat and bag silently, not meeting his eye as she mulls over her answer. The muscles around her jaw are quivering unpleasantly so she tries to swallow down the sadness as she always does. It might be the alcohol, it might be the growing weight on her shoulders, but it doesn’t work and tears sting the corner of her eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t cry in front of Izaya. She stands and turns her head away from him, lets her hair fall over her face. 

 

“Because you ruined my life,” she answers. Her voice starts to quake but she pushes through it by forcing herself to feel angry. “Before  _ this  _ I had a company and a social life and my family spoke to me. I actually had ambitions and didn't feel afraid to walk through the streets of the city I fucking live in because the Dollars or one of your disgruntled clients might slit my throat!”

 

The informant’s look turns hateful and he stands to be more at her level. But they're  _ not  _ level, in that moment Izaya’s above her in height and animosity. She’s never seen him properly pissed off before and it's more than a little intimidating. “Don't blame your shit on me, got that? You fucked up your company way before I came along, or have you forgotten all those people who died for the sake of your experiments?”

 

The woman’s anger quickly dissipates. She doesn't like hearing the truth, it's far simpler to blame Izaya than confront her own misdeeds. 

 

“Your ‘family’ - and by that I know you mean Seiji. He’s far too dim witted to notice you and even if you did he would probably run a mile knowing that his  _ sister  _ wants to fuck him,” Izaya rants, throwing a hand up in the air. Namie remains motionless but the shocked look on her face lets him know that she’s crumbling to pieces. “And don't you dare tell me that you're afraid, Namie. We’re two of the most dangerous creatures in this entire city.” 

 

Izaya stops for breath, red in the face from his tirade. He clenches a fist at his side and quickly calms himself. It's not often that he lets go of the control he’s finely crafted over the years but Namie’s managed to grate him down. He’s been wanting to snap at her for a while, angered by the way she’s so flippant with him. Can she not understand that he  _ isn't  _ lying to her?! That he’s seething with jealousy over the fact she’d rather spend time with Shizuo than him. He wants to stamp his feet and demand her attention like a child but he’s an adult and he wants to reacts like an adult would. He wants to smother her lips and make her feel how much he  _ wants  _ her. 

 

“You're twisted,” she says, weakly. 

 

“So are you. We’re both nasty ne’r do wells, aren't we Namie? We are two sides of the same dirty, counterfeit coin,” he replies. His voice is dangerously low and when he turns his eyes back up to meet hers they're feral. Izaya wants her but even he isn't certain whether it's because he genuinely feels anything for her or because he’s desperate to connect with something. The nastier part of him wants to make sure she knows that she’s  _ his.  _ “We were always meant to end up here.”

 

Namie wants to step back but her calves are already pressed tight against the sofa. She offers him a familiar sneer but she can feel moisture slipping down her cheeks and it all feels rather futile. “I thought you didn't believe in fate.”

 

“I don't,” he answers, bluntly. “It's a silly notion.”

 

It's not Izaya’s fault, not all of it. Namie knows that, it's just so much easier when he’s around to shift the blame elsewhere. She created her own downfall, Izaya just greased the cogs. He’s still looking at her so openly it makes her want to be sick. 

 

“Wh- what’s going on here, Izaya?” Namie asks, exasperated. She presses a palm to her cheek to wipe up those disgusting, awful tears. 

 

“You're a clever woman Namie, you can work it out.”

 

She laughs brokenly and drags the wet hand through her hair. “Two sides of the same coin, right? I'm not going to voice shit and neither are you.”

 

They glare at one another, silenced by pride. Eventually Izaya sighs and reaches forward to place a hand on her shoulder. 

 

“I suppose you're right,” he murmurs. He lowers his hand and turns away from her so that he can drop down into the armchair. “Perhaps one day I'll find something worthwhile to say.”

 

Namie purses her lips. “I won't hold my breath.”

 

“Neither will I,” Izaya replies. He relaxes into his chair and folds one leg over the other. His mask slips easily back into place and he flashes her an unpleasant grin. “So, what are you going to do now?”

 

She hesitates and briefly wonders if she’s gone completely insane. It’s too late, she’s half-drunk and utterly exhausted by the events of the last few days. Any other day she’d go back, staying at Izaya’s apartment is hardly a favoured situation, but the informant has ripped open her tight emotional stitching and she knows she won’t sleep in the lonely shadows of her own residence. Perhaps, she thinks, even though Izaya will be in the next room, perhaps she will sleep easier. She wishes it could be someone else, anyone else, but for now he will do. If the constant dark circles beneath his eyes are anything to go by, Izaya too doesn’t sleep well. Perhaps she might help him sleep too. It's disgusting, how alike they are. Maybe they deserve one another.  _ Huis Clos _ was right, she thinks. This apartment could be some sort of purgatory. 

 

With a sigh, she drops her bag and coat onto the floor and flops back onto the sofa. “Are the sheets in the spare room clean?”

 

“No, I jerked off on them earlier,” he answers, sarcastically. Namie glares at him and wrinkles her nose. “Of course they’re clean, it’s not like anyone stays with me.”

 

“I wouldn’t put it past you to do something vile like that,” she complains. But he’s telling the truth, there is no-one who would sleep at Izaya’s flat, not even his sisters. “Don’t try anything or I’ll throw your computer out of the window.”

 

“Scout’s honour.” 

  
  


-0-

  
  


It's four thirty by the time she wakes up. For once she slept like a rock and the peace, coupled with the hangover, made her want to stay beneath the warm sheets for as long as possible. She’s somewhat surprised that Izaya didn't wake her in some loud, irritating manner. She showers and changes into the spare set of clothes she keeps in the drawers beneath her desk, then heads to the kitchen in search of food. In a rare gesture of gratitude she decides to make enough for Izaya as thanks for letting her stay. Rather that than actually have to say ‘thank you’ out loud. All he’s got in is a large jug full of the soup she made for dinner a few days prior but it'll do. Her phone beeps in her pocket, so she sets the jug down and fishes it out of her pocket. It’s a message from Shizuo Heiwajima.

 

‘ _ If you’re not busy 2night do u want 2 come over 4 dinner? Kasuka gave me a gr8 bottle of wine before he left. S. ’ _

 

Namie raises a brow and smirks down at the message. The poor spelling, the obvious intention, it was all very endearing. A voice in the back of her mind reminds her about last night, about Izaya and she shakes her head in disbelief. Why is she even considering his feelings? Izaya is a heartless, nasty piece of shit who uses people just for kicks, there’s no world where she should find that attractive in any sense of the word. Just as she starts to type a reply, the front door slams shut and she peers across the open plan space to see the informant coming into the main room. The message goes unanswered as she hastily slips the phone back into her pocket. 

 

"Ah, you're finally awake! Did you have a pleasant sleep?" Izaya pipes up, collapsing into the armchair by the fire.

 

Namie pours the jug of pea and ham soup she’s holding into the saucepan, then turns her head to face him. He’s lounging sideways, feet slung over the arm of the chair, his dark head peeking over the back cushion. In his lap there’s an open book, some nameless cover that she doesn't recognise. The informant is not wearing his usual attire, instead he’s clad in pair of dress trousers and a pristine navy shirt, presumably he had a client to impress today. A dark tie hangs, undone, around his neck, and his collar is buttoned down. She stares at the taut, pale skin of his throat - there are bruises around his neck. His flick knife is laying open on the table and there’s blood crusted on the blade. 

 

"Fine," she replies, turning away from him to look back into the thick green liquid. A few small bubbles begin to appear on the surface. "You?"

 

"Boring, sleeping means I can't be doing other things!," he grumbles turning the page of his book slowly, eyes following the motion. "I am rather tired though so maybe I'll try and sleep more tonight. Thankfully I've seen my last client for the week."

 

"I see. Who did you see today?," she asks, transferring the now-boiling soup to a small bowl. She sets her meal down on the large wooden dining table and takes a seat behind it. 

 

"Shiki. He introduced me to a few of his new ‘friends’, a couple of guys who want to work with the Awakusu. Hence the need to look smart," Izaya chuckles, closing the book in his lap. He pushes himself out of the armchair and moves to the seat opposite her. Namie notes he doesn't ask about food. He must have eaten already, but still he takes his usual place at the table as if they were eating dinner together. It feels a bit too domestic, so she subconsciously moves back in her seat and shifts her gaze down to her soup, feeling heat spread across her cheeks.

 

"What did you find out?"

 

"That Shiki is  _ not _ going to want to work with these people, what with the Awakusu being anti-drug and everything," he answers. "They're running cocaine into Tokyo."

 

Namie raises a brow and lowers the spoon back into the bowl. "I see. Are you going to give the info to Shiki?”

 

Izaya chuckles and stretches his legs out in front of him. One of his knees bumps into hers and immediately she flinched backwards.

 

"Watch it," she grumbles, spooning the soup into her mouth. It burns her tongue, but she tries not to wince. 

 

"My apologies. I'll send Shiki my notes in a minute, the Awakusu have been good clients over the years, I’d hate to get on their bad side,” he answers, with a yawn. The circles beneath his eyes are even darker than before. “But I'll keep an eye on them, it's always good to know some contacts in that trade.”

 

Namie nods, not really listening to him. She’s too busy examining his face. How sickly he looks in the dimming Winter sun, she thinks. The light crosses the room from the windows, illuminating his eyes, turning them a disgusting yet still mesmerising red. She looks back down into the bowl when he turns to smile at her. 

 

“You're bruised again,” she states, gesturing to her own throat with the handle of the spoon. 

 

Izaya frowns and raises a hand, fingers splaying gently around his neck. “I can't run as well in these stiff dress shoes. Your new boyfriend had me by the throat for a while before I could get away.” 

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Namie hisses, shaking her head. 

 

“Oh really? Well it's good to know you haven't completely lost your mind. What with you staying over, I thought you might have gone mad,” he taunts, resting his chin against his knuckles. 

 

“Fuck off, worm.”

 

Izaya grins. “Can I stay at yours next? We could have a sleepover party.”

 

“I’d rather burn my apartment to the ground than let you sleep in it,” she responds coldly. 

 

He chuckles under his breath and looks down at his hand that's resting on the table. Slowly, he starts twisting the ring on his forefinger back and forth. There’s a slight crease by his nostril, his brow is a touch furrowed - the signs are only small but he’s obviously pissed off. Namie wonders if he’s still acting. 

 

An unfamiliar sensation bubbles in her chest. At first she pauses, opens and closes her mouth silently, but then she recognises the strange feeling as anxiety. She takes in a deep breath, and then speaks quietly, but firmly. "Are you trying to appeal to me in some way?”

 

"What makes you th-"

 

"Because I recognise the look on your face, I've made it many times. You're jealous," she finishes, coldly. As her words linger in the air, anger fills her. She lifts the soup spoon back to her lips, smiling slightly, unaware of the way Izaya is glowering at her from across the table.

 

"Jealous?" he asks, voice tight. Namie notes the tension in his voice and looks back up at him, raising her eyebrows in question. 

 

"That I prefer spending time with Heiwajima than you."

 

"I'm not jealous of that monster. I don't care who you want to spend your time with," Izaya’s lips purse slightly and under the table, away from her line of sight, his fists clench. With that, he stands up, chair scraping noisily across the wooden floor and gives her a vicious smirk. "I have to work. You can go home once you’re done but you’ll have to do the extra filing tomorrow. And don’t forget to wash up.”

 

He strides out of the living room and upstairs, into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Namie sets the spoon against the side of the bowl and slides her phone out of her pocket. 

 

‘ _ Sure. Let me know when and where. N.’  _

 

Her chest is tight when she hits send. 

  
  



	5. old/new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient lovelies! I'm working on something pretty long for Halloween so I've been rather slow at updating but I'm back on track now. The next chapter of this is already half written and I just need to finish editing Poisoned Waters/Blame's next parts before posting.

It’s a nice evening, crisp and cold and dark by five. Namie’s wrapped up in her warmest Winter coat but even so, she’s never minded the pleasant sting of the icy temperature on her cheeks. She’s walking through Ikebukuro on the way back to her apartment. Heiwajima will be joining her in an hour. Though she hasn’t seen his place, it’s predictably smaller and dirtier than hers, so she offers to cook dinner if he brings wine. He readily agreed, clearly pleased to be invited into her home. It’s sweet but it’s not like the apartment means much to her. There’s little personality to it, little warmth. It’s just space. It will be strange to have someone visit but maybe he’ll bring a little life. She hopes it won’t make the silence worse when he leaves. 

 

“Namie!”

 

A cold feeling runs down her spine. She hasn’t heard that voice in a long time. Slowly, she turns, plastic bag full of food swinging heavily against her calf. “Seiji.”

 

Her brother gives her a wave as he crosses the road onto the pavement and comes to stop in front of her. The first thing she notices is the grotesque Christmas jumper he’s wearing, a monstrous mess of red and green wool with a number of glittery puffballs dotted around the shoulders. Seiji grins when he sees her grimace and flicks one of her baubles with his forefinger. 

 

“Grim, right?” he comments, shaking his head. “Mika made it for me.”

 

Namie nods and wrinkles her nose. “Hideous.”

 

“It’s grown on me,” he laughs, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. “So how are you? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

 

“Fine thanks,” she answers, calmly. For once she doesn’t feel the usual heat on her cheeks or butterflies in her stomach. There’s no pleasure or excitement or even anger at that stupid jumper, she’s just staring at him blankly as if he’s someone that she used to know a long time ago. There’s an odd stab at her heart when she realises that’s  _ exactly  _ what he is. “You?”

 

Seiji shrugs and places his hands into his pockets. “Good. Got some studying to do tonight so I’m just running to the store to get some more coffee.”

 

“Try Boss Black,” she replies. “It’s strong, might keep you awake.”

 

“That’s the unsweetened stuff, isn’t it?” Seiji asks. “I prefer the ones packed with sugar.”

 

Namie smiles gently and the uncomfortable feeling in her stomach ceases. “You’ll rot your teeth.”

 

The siblings both chuckle, the sound the only thing that remains similar between them. Seiji gestures to the heavy bag she’s carrying and raises a brow. “You want me to help you carry that home? We could have a drink or something. You don’t live far from here, right?” 

 

“No, it’s okay,” she answers, clutching the bag a little tighter. “I need to get back to prepare dinner tonight.”

 

“No worries. We should catch up properly soon though,” he smiles. “I feel like we haven’t seen each other in ages.”

 

We haven’t, she thinks, I stopped calling when you stopped picking up. Namie nods regardless of her thoughts and gives him a strained grin. “Sure. My number is the same, just send me a text.”

 

“Cool. I’ll let you run, it’s freezing out. Are you having dinner with that asshole boss of yours?” he queries. 

 

“God no. I’d rather poison myself,” Namie laughs harshly and shakes her head. She ignores the voice reminding her that she had dinner with Izaya just last night. “Quite the opposite actually.”

 

Seiji frowns and rolls his head slightly to one side. “You mean Shizuo Heiwajima?”

 

“How-?”

 

“The opposite of Izaya - Shizuo. Those two fight in the streets every day, everyone knows them,” he explains. He looks at her sternly and takes a step forward so that he can place a hand on her shoulder. Namie tenses, a reaction she’s never experienced when around her brother, usually she simpers and flushes. The change in her feelings startle her somewhat but she manages to keep a straight face despite panic making her heart pound. “How did you manage to get involved with the two most dangerous people in the city, Namie?”

 

She smiles weakly. “I guess I’m a magnet for danger.”

 

Seiji sighs and drops his hand from her shoulder. “You’re smart enough to make your own decisions. Just stay safe, okay? Shizuo, Izaya, people like that - they aren’t  _ good  _ people. They’ll just drag you into something nasty.”

 

People like them. People like  _ her. _ She swallows to try and shift the lump in her throat. Namie is certainly smart enough to make her own decisions, unfortunately they all happen to be bad. Would Seiji be disappointed with her if he knew everything about her? All the disgusting, evil things she’s done over the years put her up there with Izaya and Shizuo in terms of ‘dangerous’. Namie knows full well that she too is not a good person. Seiji’s looking at her with worry in his eyes and it’s sickening. She decides to tell him nothing, to do so would be to drag him into something nasty, just as he said. 

 

“Thanks, Seiji,” she murmurs, softly. “I'll see you later okay.”

 

She turns away from her brother before he’s even said goodbye and tries to keep her breathing even despite panic rattling her bones. Her eyes are stinging and her hands feel sweaty and she simply cannot allow herself to cry for the second time in two days. By the time she reaches her apartment her body is shaking from the exertion it’s taking to keep herself together. The door is quickly shut and locked behind her and it’s only when she’s alone in the darkened hallway that she raises a hand and covers her mouth as she gulps down the sob that threatens to emerge. 

 

_ People like that - they aren’t good people.  _ No, they aren’t good in any sense of the word but they’re  _ her  _ people. She understands them - fuck it, she’s one of them. The realisation is crushing, reality overwhelms her in an instant. The distance between her and Seiji is so vast now that she doesn’t even see him, the last thread is cut. It’s obvious, it should have always been obvious. Why did it take her so long to realise that her love was gravely misplaced - Seiji is her  _ brother.  _ All the years she spent adoring him, all that time longing for him, those nights she- Namie screws her eyes shut and leans back against the wall. Izaya’s words from the previous evening ring loudly in her ears. To think of her own family like that is vile,  _ she’s _ vile. 

 

The buzz of her doorbell startles her and she drops her bag of shopping on the floor with a yelp. Hurriedly she turns and picks up the phone. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey Namie, it’s Shizuo.”

 

She sighs shakily and runs a hand through her hair. Time to pull yourself together, she thinks as she draws in a deep breath. “I’ll buzz you in. Take the lift to floor three, I’m the door at the end.”

 

“Cool.”

 

The buzzer sounds when she presses the button and she quickly puts the phone down so that she can retrieve the shopping from the floor. Her apartment has an open plan kitchen and living room with a marvellous view of the city from the vast window on one of the walls. She places the groceries down on the island and sets two wine glasses on the counter just as a knock sounds from the door. Everything is going too fast, she feels rushed and out of sorts and wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep. On the other hand, Shizuo could provide the distraction she so greatly needs tonight. He’s not Seiji, he’s not Izaya and sure he might be a bit of a brute, but at least he’s  _ here.  _

 

“Coming!” Namie calls, rushing to the hallway. She unlocks the door and jerks it open, forcing a smile to her face when she sees him standing on the other side of the threshold.

 

Shizuo smiles and holds up a plastic bag, within which are two bottles of wine. “Evening.”

 

“Do you have any cigarettes?” Namie asks, flushing. “I could really do with about a hundred.”

 

“Shit day?” he queries, lips quirking into a smirk. 

 

She nods and her smile relaxes into one more genuine. “Shit year.”

 

“No worries, I got you covered.”

 

Namie steps to the side and allows him to enter, then locks the door behind him. The blond waves a hand at her and slows down as she falls into step beside him. “Um, come through here and sit at the kitchen island. I haven’t had time to prepare anything yet so you might have to wait a bit.”

 

He does as she says and perches on one of the stools as she sets two glasses and a bottle opener down in front of him. With a smile he hands her an unopened box of Marlboros, which she gladly takes. “You can keep that. Kasuka once did some spokesperson shit for the company so I got smoked coming outta my ass.”

 

“Charming,” she replies, ripping the plastic off the box. There's an old, empty ashtray somewhere in one of the island cupboards, so she starts rooting around to find it. “I was going to make curry, is that okay?” 

 

“Sounds great.”

 

Namie places the ashtray between them and plucks a cigarette from the box. “I was going to make hotpot but-” She trails off, thinking  _ but that’s Izaya’s favourite.  _ “But I couldn't find the right ingredients in the store.”

 

“That sounds good to me. Can I help with anything?” he asks, handing Namie a lighter. She swiftly sparks up the end of the cigarette in her mouth and moves around the counter to look in the plastic bag she has bought back with her. Shizuo watches her closely, lighting a smoke of his own. Her brow is furrowed, creating a small crease in the centre of her forehead. That, coupled with the downward curve of her mouth, makes it clear that she’s got something on her mind. He considers asking her but there’s the possibility that he’ll come across as rude so he keeps his mouth shut for the time being. Namie sighs and lets out a long breath of smoke. “Everything okay?”

 

She looks up at him and grimaces. “I forgot to get the curry roux. Oh for fuck’s sake.”

 

To her surprise, Shizuo just laughs and digs his phone out of his pocket. “Hey, it's no worry. We can just order in, right? I've got Russia Sushi’s number if I can tempt you?” 

 

He’s being so  _ nice  _ that she wonders if he has an ulterior motive. Quickly she reminds herself that he is not Izaya, not everyone needs an unpleasant reason behind their actions. Forcing herself to relax isn't easy, so she takes another drag of smoke and points to the bottle of wine. 

 

“Russia Sushi sounds good. Shall I open that?”

 

“Sure, go ahead,” he replies, pushing the bottle and opener closer to her. 

 

Namie slides her cigarette to the corner of her mouth while she sets about uncorking the bottle. She’s surprised to see that it really is excellent wine, Izaya’s had one of these laying around the apartment for a while. One evening she tried to open it and he tugged it out of her hands, tutting in her face.  _ Special occasions, Namie.  _

 

Shizuo nods in thanks when she pushes a freshly poured wine toward him. The delicate glass looks out of place in his large hands, she hopes he’s able to control his strength and not break it. Her Uncle Seitarou bought her those glasses a long time ago, when she first moved out, so she’s very careful with their upkeep. Despite his lack of interest in the Yagiri siblings when they were young, Namie grew up with a deeply ingrained respect for the man. And though it was probably for his own benefit, he encouraged her studies and eventually came to see trust her enough to take care of the Dullahan’s head. Part of her despised him, for treating her and Seiji as an inconvenience but as she grew older she came to realise that they probably were exactly that. Seitarou was a professional man who had two young children dumped on him because their parents were incapable of taking care of them anymore. For a long time Namie had harboured a burning hatred for her parents. It was down to their stupid mistakes that they’d abandoned her, they’d abandoned  _ Seiji _ . As time passed the flames dampered, though they remained alight deep down in some shutoff part of her brain. Despite this the damage was done, Namie had spent too long festering in feelings of hatred, sometimes she wonders whether or not she’ll ever be able to have a non-cynical thought. She takes a long sip of wine and closes her eyes at the pleasant feeling of alcohol soothing her insides. 

 

Heiwajima is being polite, he doesn’t mention the way she gets lost in her thoughts or chugs the wine like it’s water. He really is nothing like Izaya. Nothing like her either. That has to be a positive, right? He carries on smoking until the fire crackles against the filter and he stabs it into the ashtray. “So, what would you like?”

 

Before the words have properly processed in her mind, she blurts out, “Otoro.”

  
  



	6. end/beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

The night passes quickly, just as it did at the bar. Heiwajima is as pleasant as he always is, even insisting on buying dinner despite her protests. The gesture flusters her and she demands that she pay next time. He seems pleased with her response and repeats ‘next time’ with a satisfied look on his face. They eat around the kitchen island, smoking and talking as if they’ve known one another for years. It’s so  _ easy _ , she almost doesn’t believe it. There’s no double meaning to the things that Shizuo says, no trickery or malice. Behind the violent facade, he’s rather soft. Namie lays down her chopsticks and reaches for the glass of wine in front of her as she watches him eat. There’s a smudge of chilli sauce on his cheek which he doesn’t seem to have noticed. It reminds her of Izaya and the pizza sauce smeared over his chin the other night. For all their bravado, both of them are childish in certain ways. Namie takes a sip of her drink and wonders why she started hanging around with a pair of insane man-children and when her life started going to shit. She’s twenty six years old, wealthy, intelligent - shouldn’t she be socialising with others more like her? Shizuo looks up and chuckles under his breath, gesturing to his chin with the handle of his chopsticks. 

 

“You’ve got sauce on your chin,” he says, with a grin. 

 

Namie flushes and quickly wipes the drops of soy away with a napkin. Humiliation prickles . Perhaps she does belong with these people, the degenerates and monsters of Ikebukuro. Perhaps she belongs here and should stop fighting to be ‘above’ them. Perhaps she should stop over-analysing fucking  _ sauce. _ In response she taps her own cheek and looks up at Shizuo.

 

“You’ve got sauce on your cheek.”

 

He wipes his thumb over the sticky substance then licks it clean. “Ah, sorry. I’m quite a messy eater.”

 

It’s endearing, rather than disgusting like it is with Izaya. He’s not only messy but noisy too. The informant slurps every soup, sucks in every noodle, zealously crunches -  _ stop  _ thinking about Izaya, she scolds herself. The wine is going down easily, they’re almost at the end of the first bottle, so she pushes her chair back and reaches beneath the kitchen island to the built-in rack for another. It’s not as nice a quality as the first but it’ll do. 

 

“You sure do like wine,” Shizuo comments, watching her with amusement as she screws the cork out of the bottle. 

 

Namie smirks as she pours herself a large glass then pushes the bottle toward him. “Well, my job would drive anyone to drink.”

 

The blond nods in agreement as he follows her motions and refills his glass. The previously bright smile has dipped into a hard line and his free hand has unconsciously curled into a fist. “That fuc- sorry, sorry. Just the thought of him pisses me off.” 

 

“It's fine, he pisses me off too,” Namie says, waving a hand at him carelessly. Shizuo takes his hand away from the wineglass and she notices that his fingers are tense. Clearly he’s trying not to break anything accidentally, which is appreciated. “Out of curiosity - why do you both hate each other?” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

Namie takes a sip of her drink then places it back on the table and reaches for the half-empty box of cigarettes between them. “You and Izaya. There must be some reason for all this conflict. Something that started it.”

 

Shizuo frowns and his brows pull together in the centre of his forehead. “Nothin’ really started it. Shinra introduced us at high school. We barely said two sentences to one another before I tried to wring his neck and he pulled a knife on me.”

 

“Seriously?” she replies, skeptically. 

 

“Yeah. Sounds kinda stupid when you say it out loud but there’s no real reason. We just hate each other,” he answers, scowling down at his clenched fists. “I think we were born to hate each other.”

 

Namie watches him silently as he calms himself down. It must be difficult containing that amount of rage all the time, especially when it seems without reason. She wonders if it affects Izaya too. The informant is obsessed with the man in front of her, that much is obvious, but sometimes she debates whether or not his fire is fuelled entirely by hatred. Namie doesn’t kid herself, she’s not like that hyper-active fujoshi that hangs around Russia Sushi, there isn’t the slightest hint of love there. Izaya is driven by a mixture of contempt, intrigue and mania - a cocktail of crazy if she ever did see one. Shizuo isn’t crazy, he’s a man driven by anger and confusion at his own body. His immense strength is dangerous, it’s obvious that he’d rather keep it hidden if he could. But then there’s Izaya,  _ always  _ Izaya, drawing the monster out of peace in order to let the city gawp. At some point he must have stopped caring about what people thought of him - if his reputation was already ruined, why not engage with the informant and try and rip his head off? It wasn’t as if Izaya was ever going to stop playing the game. 

 

“Nothing is pre-determined,” she comments, softly. “If those first two sentences had been different, who knows? You might have been best friends.”

 

Shizuo wrinkles his nose in disgust at the very thought. “As if. Can you imagine  _ anyone  _ being friends with Izaya? Apart from Shinra, I mean. But he’s batshit so I wouldn’t trust his judgement.”

 

“You’re right, Izaya doesn’t have friends,” she agrees, taking another large gulp of wine. She doesn’t want to keep talking about the information broker but it’s interesting to hear Heiwajima’s thoughts. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about the blight that’s affecting both their lives. “He has enemies and expendable puppets.”

 

The man slips a cigarette into his mouth and lights it smoothly. He’s silent for a moment as he inhales and the smoke seems to calm him, his muscles ease out of tension and body slumps slightly to one side. When his free hand has slackened flat on the table, he peers back up at Namie and furrows his brow. “Which one of those are you?”

 

Namie grimaces and look down into her glass. The information broker’s words replay in her mind.  _ We are two sides of the same dirty, counterfeit coin.  _ “Neither. I’m his secretary.”

 

“I guess I fall into the enemies category,” he grimaces. He takes another drag of his cigarette and then lets out a sharp breath of smoke. “I can’t shake the feeling that I might be a puppet as well.”

 

“In what sense?”

 

He shrugs and taps ash from the end of his cigarette into the ashtray between them. “I think Izaya uses me to have fun. I think he likes provoking me and likes that I react to him.”

 

That certainly sounds like something Izaya would do, Namie thinks. She hums thoughtfully and places down the un-lit cigarette she’s been holding. “You could stop reacting to him?”

 

“I don’t think I can,” Shizuo answers, gruffly. “Too much has happened. When I see him I think about all the fucked up stuff he’s done to me and the people I love and I just lose it. I don’t want him to win.”

 

Namie raises a brow. “Win what?”

 

“Whatever fucking game it is he’s created for us,” he stabs the half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray with enough force that the whole table shakes. Namie doesn’t flinch but he looks up at her with shame in his eyes regardless. “Sorry. I just- I don’t wanna talk about that blood-sucking little flea anymore.”

 

“Sure,” she answers. “Do you want to sit on the sofa? It’s more comfortable than these stools.”

 

Shizuo nods and the smile returns to his face, albeit more weary than before. “Sounds good.”

 

Namie leads the way, ushering Shizuo over to the L-shaped sofa with bottle and glass in hand. She sits in the corner and stretches her legs out, relaxing into the pillows as he sits down next to her. Shizuo places the glass of wine he’s been holding down on the coffee table and smiles at her sheepishly. 

 

“I’ll drink it away from the sofa,” he says. “Or I’ll just end up spillin’ it everything. Wine doesn’t come out of cream that well, does it?”

 

“I’ve heard if you pour white wine over red, it helps,” she replies, taking a sip from her glass. “But I can’t see it really doing that much. If you wanted to dissolve the  anthocyanin compounds from the red then white wouldn’t be much more use than water.” When she turns her head, Shizuo is peering at her curiously. Namie raises a brow. “Do I have more sauce on my face?”

 

He shakes his head with a laugh. “No, no! Sorry, I was just thinking ‘bout how smart you are.” 

 

“Wine chemistry isn’t exactly brain surgery.”

 

“It’s still smart,” Shizuo insists. He leans forward and takes a gulp of wine over the table before setting the glass down and leaning back. “You’re clearly super intelligent, Namie. Don’t discredit yourself.”

 

Namie blinks, uncertain of how to accept the compliment. She drains the last of her wine and sets the empty glass on the floor. It’s been a long time since someone gave her some genuine appreciation. She chides herself for the way her stomach fills with butterflies and her cheeks flush with heat. Is she really that starved for attention? A resounding chorus of  _ yes _ rings in her head. Shizuo is an attractive man and despite his violent tendencies on the streets, he seems like a good man. He’s thoughtful, friendly, kind. Another voice pipes up and reminds her that he’s also  _ not Izaya.  _ The thought makes her angry - she shouldn’t even be thinking about that asshole when there’s a perfectly nice man sat in front of her. Fuelled by that flicker of rage and liquid courage, she moves while thinking  _ fuck you, Izaya.  _

 

Shizuo seems surprised when she leans forward and presses her lips against his. His mouth is soft, soon bending to her intent. When it parts to let her tongue push inside she can taste wine and smoke. It’s a different taste, a different feel to the last kiss she had. The memory agitates her even further, so she leans into the kiss and settles her hands on Shizuo’s chest. One moves up, round his neck and he lets out a gentle groan when she scratches her nails through the hair at his nape. Fuck it, she thinks, fuck Seiji, fuck her shitty life, fuck  _ Izaya.  _ A pleasing growl rumbles low in Shizuo’s chest as he pushes forward, giving way to the want of his body. Namie lies flat and he moves up, settling between her parted thighs, body propped up by his forearms. His fingers slide into the back of her hair, twist gently and she grinds her hips up against his in response. It feels good, to be touched like this. It’s been a long time since Namie’s had any human contact - apart from Izaya, which she obviously doesn’t count - but she isn’t self-conscious about her actions. She knows about human bodies, knows how they work and despite his abnormal qualities, Shizuo reacts in the way any man would. If anything he’s more sensitive - perhaps, she muses, he is touch-starved too. Things are moving quickly but neither of them seem to care. Shizuo’s hand trails down her side and comes to rest on her hip. His fingers span out across her hipbone and she notices that they’re shaking with the effort it takes for him to be gentle. She moves her hands to his shirt. She’s not thinking about Izaya.

 

Suddenly the quiet is punctured by a high-pitched beep coming from her handbag and her fingers still on the top button of his collar. Namie feels her heart sink - that's not her usual phone, it's the emergency one, the one Izaya gave her to make sure they always remained in contact. It's an simple but encrypted piece of equipment, made to withstand falls. Izaya demands that she keep it on her at all times, that’s one of the prerequisites of the job. Shizuo notices her tense and leans back away from the kiss. He turns his head and looks toward the source of the noise. For a moment he’s still, confused but he soon pieces together the blaring alarm and her look of discomfort. 

 

“Izaya, right?” he asks. Namie nods, mouth pulling down into a frown. Shizuo leans down again, lips brushing teasingly against hers. “Ignore it.”

 

Namie hesitates initially but continues the kiss when the warmth of his mouth closes over her own. The phone continues wailing from across the room. Would Izaya really fake an emergency for the sake of ruining her evening with Shizuo? Did he even find out about her evening with Shizuo?  _ Yes,  _ to both, she thinks, of course he would. But there’s still a niggling doubt in her mind. What if he’s hurt - does she even care? The unpleasant squirming in her stomach makes her realise that yes, yes she does. She cares because she finally believes that  _ maybe  _ he wasn’t lying when he held her close,  _ maybe  _ he was honest when he said that  ‘we were always meant to end up here’. It’s a leap she doesn’t want to take but  _ fuck  _ it would be stupid to resign herself to self-imposed ignorance. Namie presses a hand against Shizuo’s chest and he draws back, looking down at her with concern. It’s such an honest expression, so  _ good _ \- it makes her want to cry. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. She means it, she cannot express how  _ sorry  _ she is. Sorry that she has to answer the phone. Sorry that she is using him as a distraction. Sorry that she’s, without a doubt, has feelings for that fucking heartless, childish, idiotic man. 

 

The blond pauses for breath, then pushes himself away from the sofa and looks down at her. For a moment his face is blank, then he nods to himself and smiles at her. “It’s- it’s okay.”

 

That does make her cry but she turns her head down so that he can’t see. “It’s the emergency phone. I have to answer it.”

 

Shizuo swallows thickly and places his hands in his pockets as he waits for her to right herself. Eventually, after the buzzing of the phone has gotten intolerable, Namie bolts upright and hurries across the room to fetch the mobile out of her bag. She presses the answer button and raises the device to her ear, taking a few deep breaths to vent out the upset causing her hands to tremble. 

 

“Hello?”

 

‘ _ Namie?’ _

 

“Yes Izaya,” she replies, wearily. Shizuo crosses to the kitchen island and lays a hand on her shoulder. He gestures with his thumb to the door and picks up his coat. “What do you want?”

 

_ ‘Those drug dealers I told you about? Things went south. Got-agh, fuck. Got stabbed. Need your help.’ _

 

Namie turns her watery eyes up to Shizuo, who is pulling on his coat. The choice is so startlingly clear. Hang up or let him leave. Shizuo or Izaya. She closes her eyes and ignores the aching feeling in her chest, the churning feeling in her stomach that is making her want to be sick. “Where did they stab you?”

 

_ ‘Around my stomach. Got beaten up too. I’m going to send you my location,’ _

 

“Yeah, sure,” she replies. Shizuo’s hand leaves her shoulder and she hears him walking away but she doesn’t open her eyes until she hears the front door click shut. It’s only then that she opens her eyes and lets all the pent up tears fall down her cheeks. “I’ll be there soon, okay Izaya?”

 

_ ‘Are you crying?’  _ Izaya asks, sounding bemused.  _ ‘I’m flattered.’ _

 

Namie lets out a laugh, one tinged with anger and hatred for the man on the other end of the line. “Send me your location. And pray that I don’t decide to let you bleed out into the street.”

  
  
  
  
  



	7. hurt/comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter this time. Hope you enjoy! A new fic will be out shortly as well!

Namie finds him slumped against the side of a dumpster, hunched over with his hands clutching his stomach. Despite the dim of the evening, she can see that his hands are slick with red. A bloody knife lies discarded on the floor beside him, presumably it was the weapon that punctured his guts. There's a deep cut on his right temple and his bottom lip is busted, clearly he’s been smacked around the head a few times. The bruises and scrapes across his cheeks would lend to this theory. Izaya hears her footsteps as she approaches and sluggishly raises his head to greet her. As ever, he gives her an infuriating grin. He’d probably still be smiling if he were dead, she imagines, just to piss her off one final time. 

 

“Namie,” he says. His voice is weaker than usual, it lacks the harsh edge that she’s used to. “Good to see you.” 

 

She wrinkles her nose and folds her arms across her chest. “The feeling isn't mutual. I've called an ambulance - like you should have done.” 

 

“Th-thank you. I do hope I wasn't interrupting anything,” Izaya wheezes. 

 

“You knew exactly what you were interrupting,” she snaps, irritably. With a sigh, she drops to her knees in front of him, ignoring the way the wet, cold floor tears into her stockings. “Are they still here?”

 

“I wouldn't have called you here if they were,” he answers, words tripping over the grunts of pain scraping the back of his throat. “I played dead for a while.”

 

She purses her lips and gestures to his stomach. “Move your arms, I need to check your wounds.”

 

Izaya shakes his head. “I’ve been holding my scarf against the deepest one. I’m worried that removing the pressure will-”

 

“You should have left the blade in until the ambulance arrived, you could have hurt yourself more,” she chides, shaking her head. Quickly, she opens her bag and pulls out a wad of material. “Let me use some clean cloth. Your scarf is probably soaked by now.”

 

Reluctantly, he nods and his fingers go slack around the scarf. Namie reaches forward and pushes his arms out of the way so that she can quickly snatch away the bloody accessory and replace it with the cloth in her hand. It looks like the wound is still bleeding but the stream isn't as severe as expected. She presses the material firmly against him and glances up at his face when she hears him hiss in pain. 

 

“Wimp,” she comments, pursing her lips. Izaya smiles wearily but she can see that his teeth are grit tightly together beneath. “It won't be long, hold in there, okay?”

 

“You’re being awfully n-nice,” he croaks, shuddering in pain. “S’weird.”

 

Namie smirks and shakes her head. “Idiot.”

 

“Were you crying?” he asks. She stares back at him blankly as if to show the absence of tears in her eyes. “On-ugh, fuck  _ ow.  _ On the phone, I mean.”

 

“No.”

 

“Why?” 

 

She sighs, annoyed by the way he see through her. “I was cutting onions.”

 

Izaya coughs a laugh and leans his head back against the wall. All the colour seems to have drained from his face, accentuating his darkly circled eyes and the few smears of blood over his cheek. When he closes his eyes Namie takes his wrist in her free hand and slides her fingers over his pulse point. The beats come far too rapidly, so she’s relieved when she hears sirens echoing not far in the distance. The informant sighs softly and his breath turns visible in the freezing Winter air. He’s visibly shivering, the thin lining of his coat clearly doing nothing to stave off the cold. Namie moves closer and kneels between his thighs so that she can huddle her shoulders around him as best she can without moving her hands from his stomach and pulse. The position is rather awkward, her chest is right in his face but thankfully his eyes remain closed. 

 

“I don’t have another jacket,” she informs him. Izaya doesn’t react, he doesn’t seem to hear her at all. “I’ll stay in the way of the wind until the ambulance gets here.”

 

“Thanks. S’good,” he says. From the way his head rolls onto his shoulder and the slur of his words, he’s not in his right mind. He curls his cold fingers around her wrist, mimicking her hold on him, and pushes against her pulse. A small smile appears on his face, as if he’s found comfort in the even throbbing of her heartbeat. “M’happy. Th-thought it’d be lonely.”

 

“You’ve lost a lot of blood Izaya,” Namie responds, pressing harder against his stomach. “You’re confused, so stop talking before you say something stupid.”

 

He lets out a shaky breath and his fingers go slack around her wrist. “I’d regret d-dying alone, I think. Would you, N-Namie?”

 

Flashing blue light fills the alley and when Namie leans back to look past the dumpster she sees a number of paramedics heading toward them. She releases Izaya’s wrist and waves at them, then looks back at the wounded man. His eyes are still closed but she can see his chest slowly rising and falling. Yes, she thinks, everyone would hate to die alone. It seems likely that Izaya, who has chosen a life in the underworld, will be resigned to this fate. Namie furrows her brow and tightens her grip around the bloody cloth. There’s still time for her to get out, isn’t there? She looks down at Izaya’s sickly face and swallows thickly. Perhaps she doesn’t want to, perhaps they deserve one another. 

 

“You’re not going to die, you idiot,” she assures him, laying a hand on his shoulder. The blue lights illuminate the blood clinging to her fingers. “You’re not alone either, are you? I’m here.”

 

“Namie, pl-” he begins, voice barely more than a whisper.

 

“Here!” Namie yells, beckoning to the approaching people. “Stab wound to the abdomen. He’s been beaten too so there’s likely fractures.”

 

The EMT’s surround her and she backs off, allowing them to assist the information broker. She pushes herself back until she feels the cold wall flat against her shoulder blades and stares absently at the sliver of night sky above the alley as the paramedics rush around Izaya. Her hands are sticky and the front of her shirt is wet but she doesn’t look down, she already knows it’s the informant’s blood staining her body and clothes. The sounds of the EMT’s speaking blends in with the general hum of the city and soon she zones out completely, focused only on the sickly-coloured moon above. 

 

“Miss?” 

 

Namie blinks and lowers her gaze to see one of the EMT’s looking at her with concern. When she rolls her head down she notices that Izaya is being hoisted up on a stretcher held by the other medics. His face is screwed up in pain but at least it’s not lifeless. The EMT lays a hand on her shoulder and gives her a reassuring smile.

 

“We’re doing all we can for him,” she says, kindly. “You stemmed the bleeding well. And-”

 

“And you can’t be one hundred percent sure but you think he’ll be fine,” Namie finishes, pushing herself to her feet. She finally looks down at her bloody hands and screws them into fists. “I used to have to tell people that all the time.”

 

The EMT lowers her hand and gestures down the alley toward the ambulance. Namie nods and they hurry behind the stretcher to the vehicle. “You’re a doctor?”

 

“I-uh, I used to be,” Namie answers, hesitantly. She watches as they load Izaya into the back of the ambulance. The lights seem to blur, everything seems to blur, then the EMT places her hand back onto Namie’s shoulder and she jumps at the sudden touch. 

 

“Are you okay?” the EMT asks. Namie watches in confusion as the woman offers her a packet of tissues. “Here.”

 

Namie furrows her brow and raises her hand to touch her cheeks. To her surprise, they come back wet. She hadn’t even realised she was crying. 

 

-0-

 

“I'm afraid I didn't see their faces,” Izaya explains, gesturing to his cheek. “They wore masks you see.”

 

The two officers stood at the end of his hospital bed look nervously at one another. One of them coughs lightly and laces his hands together behind his back. Namie watches the scene from Izaya’s bedside, slightly bored, slightly impressed that the informant can lie so smoothly even on painkillers. 

 

“Was it Shizuo Heiwajima?” the officer asks, anxiously. “You two fight an awful lot so-” 

 

Izaya laughs and shakes his head. “No, no. Stabbing isn't really Shizu-chan’s style. When you find me with my head torn neatly off - that’ll be his doing.” 

 

The officer nods, looking slightly relieved that he would not have to pursue the beast of Ikebukuro  any further. The other policeman steps forward and slides his notebook into his top pocket. “Thank you for speaking with us Mr Orihara, I wish you a speedy recovery. Please call us if you remember any other details. We’ll be in touch.”

 

Namie watches them leave, then turns her gaze back to the man sat up beside her. “Is that going to cause any trouble?”

 

“No,” he answers, cheerily. “The one with the notebook is the division inspector and an acquaintance of Shiki’s. I doubt it will even get reported.” 

 

“Friends in high places, huh?”   

 

“Well, I wouldn't call us ‘besties’, Namie.”

 

She snorts derisively and folds her arms across her chest. Her clothes are still stained and sticky as she hasn't had the chance to return home yet, instead remaining by the wounded man’s side until he woke. Dried blood scrapes against her stomach and she winces at the disgusting feeling. Izaya’s smile falls and he stares at her thoughtfully, gaze raking over her bloody shirt. 

 

“You should go home,” he advises, leaning back into the mountain of pillows behind him. “You smell vile.”

 

“I smell like  _ you, _ ” she snaps, prodding him in the arm. Izaya starts to chuckle but the sound turns into a pained hiss when the motion pulls at the stab wound. Namie stands, rolling her eyes at his stupidity. “But you’re right - it is a vile smell.”

 

The informant watches closely as she gathers her belongings, a weary smile on his face. His face is still pasty, eyes still shadowed by dark circles, but he’s alive and stitched together and that’s more than enough for Namie to feel confident enough to leave. She zips her coat up to the top, thankful that the dark material masks the bloodstains that have seeped through onto her cream shirt. Izaya has been cleaned up and dressed in a hospital gown by the staff and his dirty clothes have been bundled into a plastic sack that’s resting at the end of the bed. 

 

“I’m going to clean up and get some sleep,” she informs him, tiredly. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since she’s had any sleep and the thought of falling into bed is  _ so  _ appealing. “Then I’ll bring you some spare clothes, if you want.”

 

“Please. Could you also bring the two phones in the top drawer on the left side of my desk?” Izaya asks, reaching for the mobile which is resting on the bedside table. “They said I’d be in here for at least ten days and I’m going to be bored out of my mind.”

 

“As if you’re going to actually stay in here for ten days,” Namie comments, scathingly. “You always manage to get signed out of the hospital by some poor Yakuza-influenced doctor.”

 

Izaya grins slyly. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

 

She finds herself returning his smile, just for a second, then she picks up her bag and moves across the room to the door. With her hand resting on the handle, she turns and looks back at Izaya. There’s a moment where she hesitates, then she swallows and starts to speak. “You didn’t do this on purpose, did you?” 

 

The information broker’s cheerful expression falters and she notices his fingers curl around the sheet over his lap. His lips eventually slide back out into a strained smile. “Do you really think I would get myself stabbed for the sake of upsetting your evening? Even for me, that seems a little extreme.”

 

“A straight answer,” Namie replies, turning the handle. “Yes or no.”

 

Izaya scowls at her. “No. I didn’t.”

 

“Good,” she says, softly. Before leaving, she gives him a nod and a small smile. “It’s good that you’re not dead. Get some rest, I’ll see you soon.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. decisions/decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

By the time Namie wakes up the Winter sun has already fallen behind the horizon and the city of Ikebukuro has been illuminated by the vibrant lights of the buzzing nightlife. She sits up and in bed and groans, running a hand through her mussed hair. When she’d arrived back from the hospital Namie had been so tired that she’d collapsed into bed without even closing the curtains. Thankfully she’d managed to change into her pajamas. The bloodied clothes are discarded on the floor next to the bed and the sight of them makes her shudder. She leans back against the pillows and grabs her phone from the nightstand. There are two emails waiting for her - one from Izaya, asking her to bring him something entertaining because he’s bored out of his mind and another from an address she doesn’t recognise. She frowns when she opens the message fully and sees the name ‘ _ Nebula’  _ in the email address. Wasn’t that the name of the American company that bought out Yagiri Pharmaceuticals? 

 

“What on Earth?” she mumbles to herself, squinting at the screen. The tiny words on the screen are blurry so she snatches her reading glasses - getting old, aren’t we? - from the bedside table and slides them over her ears. It doesn't take long for her to skim through the email, it's only a couple of paragraphs. 

 

_ ‘Attached are the details of our offer. We look forward to hearing  from you soon.’ _

 

It's a job offer - a bloody good one at that. Namie remains still for a moment, staring blankly at her phone. Nebula is based in America, if she were to accept she would need to leave Japan. Her stomach twists nervously -  _ she could leave Japan _ . No more yakuza or colour gangs or Dullahans. No more Seiji and Mika. No more Shizuo. No more Izaya. Namie could be a respected professional again, not some maniac’s secretary. She could make a new life. Start again. 

 

Her gaze drifts to the bloody, discarded clothes on the floor. The sight reminds her that she needs to  get to work, Izaya needs her assistance. She starts to throw off the covers but pauses and looks back at the screen.  _ Start again.  _ The idea is tempting but she locks her phone and shoves it back on the nightstand as she clambers out of bed. It's an offer than needs thought and she doesn't have time to mull it over right now. 

 

Shower. Dress. Out. Never let it be said that Namie Yagiri isn't a woman of efficiency. She’s soon on the train to Shinjuku, checking over the list of things Izaya asked her to pick up for him. Going back to his apartment is a chore, he should have asked the Headless Rider to deliver those things. Of course, he would never do that, it would only attract attention. Even if that wasn't the case, Namie can't help but think he likes bothering her with these personal chores. She switches her bag to the other shoulder and rolls the sore joint around. Her bag is heavy with a number of medical supplies which she plans to leave at Izaya’s place in preparation for his inevitably early return. There’s no doubt in her mind that the informant will be back far before reasonable discharge, he’ll probably only rest for a couple of days before delving back into work. She would respect his work ethic were it not for the fact that he takes great pleasure in his role as ruiner-of-lives. 

 

Shinjuku is already buzzing with life and it's not even six o’clock. The area can be dangerous at night but most of the residents here know not to go near her. ‘ _ Orihara said not to’,  _ they whisper. They all know Izaya round here, the low-lives, snitches, Yakuza - all seem to flock around his apartment. He pays well for information, after all. Namie strides into the building and heads for the elevator, making sure to keep one hand on the switchblade in her pocket. The information broker was stabbed, she has to keep a certain level of caution. 

 

The button for the top floor has a small smudge of red on it. Namie hesitates but eventually presses it and sucks in a breath as the door slide shut. She opens the knife and holds it behind her back, watching the dial above the doors as the elevator rises. When she reaches the top floor and steps out into the hallway she notices more spots of red staining the carpet. The trail unsurprisingly leads all the way to Izaya’s door. Namie swallows thickly and turns the doorknob as quietly as possible before entering the penthouse. It's not pitch black as expected, there's a warm orange light coming from the living room. With the knife still clenched firmly in her hand, she pads softly down the corridor until finally she can hear a noise coming from the television. Immediately she scowls and strides round the corner to see Izaya sprawled out on the sofa, watching one of those stupid cartoons he loves. 

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital!”

 

Izaya eyes the switchblade resting against her forearm and raises an eyebrow. “You yourself said you didn’t expect me to be there for long.”

 

“That-”

 

“I hate hospitals,” he sighs, lips curving into a frown. “They’re so boring, everyone is miserable. And they smell funny.”

 

Namie lets out an annoyed grunt and moves across the room to sit down on the seat next to him. Izaya is slouched over to one side and he’s clutching the area where he was stabbed tightly, as if he’s trying to keep his guts inside. A visible look of pain crosses his face when Namie sits and jogs him slightly. She shakes her head in exasperation and grabs hold of his wrist so that she can pull his hand out of the way. Even though Izaya is wearing dark-coloured pyjamas, there’s an obvious stain in the centre of his shirt. It’s slightly shiny, wet and when Namie touches it her fingertips come away red. She holds her hand up and gives him an accusatory glare. The informant just shrugs and looks back at the television. 

 

“The stitches are still in fine, it’s just residue,” he states, trying to pull back his wrist. 

 

With a low growl, she draws his wrist roughly toward her and quickly stands as he flops down onto his back. Izaya hisses loudly and begins to flail but she presses a hand firmly against his sternum to keep him in place. The man stills and watches her with wide eyes, panting from the pain caused by the sudden movement. Namie releases his wrist and kneels in front of the sofa so that she can push his shirt up his torso and get a better look at the wound. It’s gory but Izaya was right, the stitches are still in place. Still, it needs cleaning or else he runs a risk of getting infected. 

 

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Namie chides, prodding him in the hip. Izaya smirks but there’s tension pulling his brows together and she can feel his muscles clenching beneath her hand. She purses her lips in irritation. “Stop smiling.”

 

Izaya doesn’t stop. “Why?”

 

“Because you’re obviously in pain,” she comments, a little more forcefully than intended. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine. I can see through your shitty masks, Izaya.”

 

It’s only then that his smile falters and his expression changes to one of disgust. His nostrils flare and his lips flatten into a hard, unfriendly line. It’s a look not unlike her own. “Well excuse me for trying to lighten the mood. I did just get stabbed you know?”

 

Namie chuckles at his petulance and pulls her bag off the sofa onto the floor so she can search for the antiseptic fluid among the myriad of other medical supplies she brought with her. “You are utterly impossible.”

 

He returns her smile and it’s far softer than his previous smirks. When she presses a cloth soaked in antiseptic against his stomach he flinches and grabs her forearm tightly. “Fuck, that hurts.”

 

“You got stabbed, you know?”

 

“Shut up Namie,” Izaya laughs, slowly releasing her arm. He raises his hand onto his chest and laces his fingers together. As Namie continues to painfully clean around the stitches, he closes his eyes and tries to relax back into the sofa. For a moment they sit in relative quiet, the only sounds being occasional hisses from Izaya when she touches a particularly tender area. The informant lets out a breath and pushes himself up onto his elbows so that he can peer down at Namie. She doesn’t look back at him, remaining focused on the stitches. “You said that it’s good I didn’t die. Why is that?”

 

Namie’s fingers still for a second and the corners of her mouth pull down unhappily. She mulls over her options - tell him it’s because he pays her and she can’t have him dead for that reason, or tell the truth, or something inbetween. The moment passes and she continues dabbing gently at the wound. “It would be...annoying. Were you to die.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because.”

 

“This conversation is going well.”

 

They finally meet one another’s gaze and Izaya lets out a pained laugh. Namie shakes her head in amusement and drops the bloody cloth onto the floor. She watches him carefully, taking in the flush of his face and the twitch of the muscle below his eye. He looks nervous - it doesn’t suit him, she wants to get rid of it. Shizuo, Nebula, all of it disappears and in that moment all she can focus on is that way Izaya is looking at her. Just this once, she allows herself, perhaps then that niggling voice in the back of her head will go away. Izaya makes a noise when she presses her lips against his, a rough groan somewhere between lust and relief. 

 

It takes him less than a second to return the kiss, lips moving harshly against hers as if he’s worried she’ll realise her mistake and move away. Luckily for Izaya, Namie  _ knows  _ this is a mistake but she doesn’t mind, not when he’s warm and weak beneath her. She carefully threads her fingers through his hair and, though the awkward angle means that her forearm is pushing heavily against his chest, Izaya whines and mirrors her action, cradling her scalp in the palm of his hand. When he realises that Namie isn’t going to draw back, his actions soften. The kiss turns soft, the fingers in her hair are so gentle that it startles her. 

 

In her imagination, Izaya was as ruthless with desire as he was with the rest of his life but the reality was quite the opposite. He’s uncharacteristically tender, he’s taking his time, he’s making her skin feel electric and each twist of his head makes her feel dizzy. Really, really  _ dizzy _ . The gentleness is confusing, she’s too hot and without thinking she bites down on his bottom lip, teeth digging aggressively into the sensitive flesh. The hand that isn’t in Izaya’s hair slips and grazes the stab wound on his belly and Izaya gasps into her mouth so she draws back. 

 

The informant is panting, half from the pain, half from arousal and Namie finds the sight of him to be extremely appealing. His lips are reddened and his bottom lip is swollen from the bite but she doesn’t appear to have broken the skin. She focuses on his lips, eyes lidded with a desire to sink her teeth into them again. He looks good enough to eat. Namie has always been rather passive when it comes to her own sexual desires - probably the result of suppressing her love for Seiji for years -  so the sudden predatory urge to rake her fingers over Izaya’s body is a surprise. She likes that his eyes are wide and his breathing is laboured, the pathetic look on his red face is  _ beautiful.  _ Slightly disturbed by her reaction, she draws back further and stands upright, raising a hand to cover her mouth. 

 

“Sorry, I-” she begins, flustered. “I uh, I should-”

 

“Don’t,” he interrupts, softly. “Don’t apologise.”

 

They stare awkwardly at one another for a moment and Namie thinks what pitiful adults they are. Adults who play games with the lives of others, who lie without care for consequence, who cannot confront their own emotions without blushing like children. Izaya swallows and pushes himself up so that he can sit back against the sofa cushions. He peers up at her and then back at the television, which is blaring a familiar happy-go-lucky theme song. 

 

“Shall we get delivery? I want Chinese food,” he says, in his usual tone. 

 

Namie nods and heads for the kitchen. Oh, she thinks, so we’re going to pretend that never happened. Fine.  _ Fine. _ “Wine?” 

 

“Please.”

 

She wanders into the other room and, as soon as she is out of sight, screws her eyes shut in exasperation. Her body feels hot, part of her wants to stride back into the living room and rip the arrogant prick’s clothes off but that would be even more of a mistake than the one she’s already made. Namie lets out an irritable sigh and grabs the wine from the rack on the counter. There’s four more bottles in there, thank God. She’s going to need more than one to calm her nerves. 

  
  
  



	9. blood/guts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Namie. But don't fret, this isn't her end. Hope you enjoy. Next chapter out soon. :)

The night dwindles quickly into easy comfort. Izaya remains sprawled out on the sofa nursing his wounded belly while Namie takes the armchair nearest the fire. They devour the takeaway hungrily, neither realising quite how starved they were until the food touched entered their mouths. The television covers the rather disgusting sounds of their eating - Namie swiped the remote control earlier and managed to switch from those god-awful cartoons to a documentary about serial killers. The informant doesn’t seem to mind, in fact he looks absorbed in the program. That’s to be expected, Namie thinks as she wipes her mouth with a napkin, he does harp on about being fascinated by humans all the time, even the abhorrent ones. She sets down her empty plate and reaches for the wine glass on the coffee table. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable - she can still taste him on her lips. They haven’t spoken about the moment they shared earlier that evening, it’s almost as if it never happened. Namie has drunk more than her fair share of the wine from his kitchen to silence the oddly hormonal voice in her head. There moment has already passed, neither of them are going to admit that it may have affected them.

 

“Some people are so strange,” Izaya murmurs, dropping his fork into the bowl in his hands. 

 

Namie raises a brow. “Coming from the strangest person I know?”

 

“You’re so mean.”

 

There’s a hint of that old contempt they shared but it doesn’t fit as well as it did before. She watches him silently for a moment, then looks back at the television. There’s a rather grim photograph of a crime scene somewhere in America displayed on the screen. The remains of a human - the gender is indiscernible - are strewn across a clearing in a thickly wooded area. Namie would have assumed that it was a bear attack but the narrator is describing a far more disturbing situation involving a psychopath, an axe and a set of fishing hooks. She looks down into her glass of wine and grimaces at the deep burgundy colour, which looks far less appealing after viewing the gory remains. Izaya sets down his bowl and manoeuvres his body so that he can lie flat, head resting on the arm of the sofa. The movement draws her attention and she keeps her gaze fixed on him for another few minutes. He’s captivated by the television programme, eyes wide and mouth set in a slight smile. She wonders what he finds so fascinating about something as disgusting as that - the murder itself, or the people involved? Perhaps he’s thinking about what can drive someone to kill. Perhaps he understands. A question pops into Namie head that intrigues her enough to ask it out loud. 

 

“Have you ever killed anyone?” 

 

It’s something she’s wondered before - how could she not when her desk is covered in files full of his misdeeds? Izaya is so deeply entrenched in the underworld that it wouldn’t surprise her. Then again, could she see him actually murdering someone with his bare hands? No, he’s more the type to get someone to else to do it for him. 

 

“What do you mean?” Izaya asks, turning his head to look at her. “Am I a murderer?”

 

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

 

“No,” he answers, after a pause. “Not directly.”

 

Namie feels a knot twist in the pit of her stomach. That was the answer she had been expecting but it was still unpleasant to hear. “What do you mean ‘not directly’? Have you had someone hit?”

 

The informant shakes his head slowly. It looks like he’s thinking carefully about what to say. Eventually his eyelids droop and his mouth slides into a lazy smile. “No. Not my style.”

 

“Then what?” she questions, insistently. The smirk stays in place but his eyes widen until he’s glaring intensely at her. Namie doesn’t flinch but she finds the look somewhat intimidating. She reminds herself that he’s got a stab wound in his belly and she could rip the stitches out in a second if he tried anything. 

 

“I don’t need a hitman,” he replies, softly. “I simply spoke to them. Then they killed themselves.”

 

Namie feels a cold shiver run down her spine and places the glass of wine down. The good mood brought up by the fleeting moment of human intimacy dissipates entirely. She speaks softly but there is a hard bite to the end of her words. “They what?”

 

“Did you not hear me?” Izaya says, snidely. 

 

“Are you talking about those girls?” she asks, coldly. “They were  _ children-” _

 

“Teenagers, technically,” he interrupts. Izaya raises a brow at her startled expression. “Oh c’mon Namie, don’t look so shocked. I didn’t expect that any of them would actually  _ do  _ it. Besides - weren’t you involved in illegal human experimentation for  _ years _ ?”

 

She clenches her fists and draws in a breath, feeling her face heat up in anger. “I didn’t kill anyone. Other people did the experiments, I just-”

 

“Then it’s no different from what I did, is it?” he responds, waving a hand carelessly at her. “We never laid our hands on anyone, so we’re not guilty - right?”

 

Namie takes in a deep breath to calm herself. “It’s different.”

 

Izaya scowls at her and pushes himself up so that he can swing his legs over the side of the sofa. “Are you trying to take the high-ground, Lady Macbeth? Because you know that won’t work with me.”

 

It’s a disgusting truth but she knows he’s right. Her mind is desperately trying to separate her deeds from his -  _ it was work, for the advancement of science, it was-  _ but of course she’d be lying to herself again. Her experiments were selfish, as selfish as Izaya’s desire to control others. She looks back up at the television to see that the violent scene has been replaced with a press conference. The din of the reporters and flashing cameras fill the room and she zones out, no longer focusing on whatever it is that the narrator is saying. Lady Macbeth, she thinks, that would make Izaya...who? One of the witches playing around with fate? Or perhaps Macbeth is more suitable and Shizuo, his MacDuff. If the play is any indication, their future is destined to go from greatness to suffering quickly. She glances around the expensive apartment, tastes the luxurious wine on her tongue and wonders if they have reached greatness already. If this is supposed to be their peak then why is her skin crawling and her stomach churning with nausea? 

 

_ Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?  _

 

“Stop thinking so loudly, Namie,” Izaya hums, picking up the glass of wine on the floor next to the sofa. “That’ll do you no good.”

 

“No good,” she repeats, absently. The informant glances at her to see a blank expression on her face. “No good at all.”

 

_ No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.  _

 

She shouldn’t let him get to her in this way. Perhaps she has just read too much Shakespeare. 

 

-0-

  
  


Namie doesn’t stay at Izaya’s house that night. He falls asleep on the sofa, still dressed in his clothes and a dirty fork resting on his chest. The television show hasn’t even ended before he slumps down into the pillows. She slowly gathers her belongings, watching him closely, before heading out of the apartment. Waking him never crosses her mind, there’s far too much going on in her head to spare that train of thought. It seems as if the weighty thoughts of murder and guilt and intent have imploded and now she’s unable to focus on one thing at a time. Her chest aches and she feels sick because of the memory of Izaya’s tongue in her mouth. It’s a tongue that purred fatal intentions into the ears of young girls. She looks down at her hands. Hands that have peeled the skin from a girl’s face. Hands that have pulled guts out of the bodies of trafficked humans. 

 

The last train is empty, as expected. It’s pleasant to have some time by herself, even if she isn’t thinking straight. She mulls over Izaya’s confession and Macbeth, reading a few speeches on her phone before shoving it back into her pocket. Maybe she shouldn’t think about these things too much, like Izaya said. When she’d been experimenting on innocent lives she hadn’t thought much. No, back then she’d been far too focused on her goal, on her love for Seiji. It all seems rather stupid now. 

 

_ It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.  _

 

The gentle rocking of the carriage almost lulls her to sleep, it’s only the crackly tannoy that shakes her awake by the time she reaches her stop.  It’s midnight and the Winter months aid the early falling of dusk. The centre of Ikebukuro looks beautiful. Hundreds of fairy-lights adorn lamp-posts, fences and shop-doorways. Frost cracks window panes into bizarre fractals and pure white snow has started to line the streets. By tomorrow Namie guesses it will have fallen thick enough to close many schools and businesses. The woman lets out a sigh and draws a cigarette from the packet in one of her pockets, whilst she searches in the other for her lighter. Quickly, so as to avoid keeping her ungloved hand in the cold air for too long, she lights the end of the cigarette and takes in a long drag. It’s been a long month. She lets out a breath and watches as thick plumes of smoke slip from between her lips. Quickly, she checks the time on her phone and frowns - it’s going to be another half hour walk home and she’s so tired that she considers getting a cab.

For the first time her apartment is appealing. Despite the emptiness, despite the lack of ‘home’ about the place, she can’t wait to crawl into her bed. She wants  _ her  _ clothes,  _ her  _ bath,  _ her  _ personal space. Izaya, Shizuo, Seiji, Ikebukuro, Dollars, Dullahans - they’ve all seeped into the areas that used to feel safe and it’s suffocating. Namie stops walking and leans against the window of a closed shop, cigarette hanging loosely from her lips. It’s freezing and she’s forgotten her gloves again but the cold is searing, it forces her to concentrate, to think. When she catches sight of the street sign on the other side of the road she realises that her apartment is in the opposite direction. It doesn’t matter - for all the appeal of the warmth and security, she’d rather be out in the cold now. 

 

“What are you doing?” she whispers to herself, taking the cigarette back between her shaking fingers. 

 

She has no answer for herself. The cigarette burns down to the filter and falls to the floor. It’s twenty minutes before she drops to her knees and collapses back against the wall. The cold is seeping into her chest, she can feel her breathing become laboured, the tips of her shaking fingers are already numb. Why isn’t she moving? She should go home, draw a bath, eat…

 

_ Why _ ? To get up tomorrow and work for a man who takes pleasure in driving young girls to suicide? To kiss him? To flirt with another who is the definition of violence? To fawn over her own brother? She sinks down against the pavement as the first few flakes of snow settle on her upturned face. What does she intend, sitting here? Dying isn’t on the cards, she’s never been suicidal but maybe-

 

Maybe sleep. 

 

Maybe some place better than this. 

 

Somewhere she’d be a doctor or surgeon, she’d be good. Namie eyes close and her head sags to the side. It’s a nice dream but it’s far too out of reach, she spoiled it for herself long again. She shivers against the concrete and it feels as if her bones are rattling around inside her torso. Ten minutes pass and the cold sprawls out, reaching her thighs, starting to tinge her lungs. No one is coming, she thinks, not Seiji, not Shizuo, not even Izaya. 

 

Not even  _ Izaya.  _

 

The thought makes her jerk into life, despite the lack of feeling in her feet. Even he,  _ even he _ had someone to come save him. She laughs, the sound throaty and raw. Namie Yagiri doesn’t need saving. She forces herself up, clutching the rough bricks for support. The cold is cruel but she will  _ always  _ be cruller. More vicious than Shizuo, smarter than Izaya, better,  _ better _ . The mania spurs her on until she’s sprinting back to her block of apartments. Namie Yagiri doesn’t want to die but she doesn’t want to be part of this world anymore. 

 

With chattering teeth and shaking hands, she turns a corner and sees her apartment block at the other end of the road. An exhausted sob erupts from her mouth as she continues her journey home, walking slower now. Running was foolish, her lungs are burning due to to intake of cold air and her feet feel like heavy blocks of ice. But home is close, the door to the lobby is within sight. 

 

It almost seems unfair when she trips and cracks her head on the floor. Stars cloud her vision and the front of her body aches from the impact of the frozen rock. When she tries to push herself up she finds that her head is spinning too much, she can’t see, let alone find the energy to move. Instead she flops down onto the pavement and closes her eyes as the cold takes over. She thinks about mulling over her short, unhappy life before she dies but finds that she cannot be bothered. It is Izaya’s voice she hears before she blacks out. 

 

_ I’d regret dying alone, I think. Would you, Namie? _

 

A few streets over, a motorcycle revs into life. 


	10. good/night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy. :)

It’s warm. 

 

There are people talking, far away. Their voices are barely more than a whisper and - no wait, it’s just the one person talking. It almost sounds as if they’re talking to themselves. There’s an odd clicking sound in the stretches of silence, like the tapping of nails against glass. The noise bothers her for a moment but soon it fades into silence and all she can think about it how pleasantly warm she is. Wasn’t she in the snow? Namie ponders whether she died from hitting her head or hypothermia. If she did, death is far more comforting than she imagined. There’s no monsters here, no gangs, no informants - she feels light and at ease. 

 

It only takes a gentle weight on her shoulder to shatter the illusion. First, reality brings pain. The right side of her face feels like it’s burning and when she draws in a breath it feels as if a thousand needles are being stabbed into her chest. The sudden change in state frightens her and she cracks her eyes open a fraction to see dim light above. Namie opens her mouth but her teeth chatter together too rapidly for her to get any sound out. Calm down, she tells herself, calm down and assess the situation. Of course, such a task is easier said than done when one’s body isn’t violently shivering.  She’s laid down, there’s something soft beneath her shaking body - a bed. When she tries to push herself into a sitting position she finds that her hands are so bloated and painful that she can’t bend her fingers at all. Namie forces herself not to panic despite the way her heart is fluttering against her sternum. Eventually she manages to force her eyes open. 

 

It’s her bedroom. She recognises the spotlights embedded in the ceiling and the smell of the vanilla candles she always burns. A duvet is bundled tightly around her, along with several thick blankets that she recognises from her living room. How did she get home? And more importantly, why is she naked beneath the duvet? Namie’s hackles rise instantly - there must be someone else in the house, someone who brought her back here. Her eyes dart nervously from side to side. It better not be Izaya. If she could cross her bloated fingers, she would.

 

“It hasn’t snowed in Tokyo in 54 years, y’know?” a deep voice rumbles from somewhere in the distance. “I hope it stays for Christmas.”

 

SIlence, then another strange clicking sound. 

 

“I bet it was beautiful in Ireland,” the voice continues, as if someone has spoken back to them. It’s a voice she recognises but cannot place, her mind is still hazy with confusion. “Do you ever want to go back and visit?”

 

Namie breaths in again and winces as pain racks her torso but she pushes on and manages to croak out, “Who’s there?”

 

Soft footsteps sound from the direction of the living room, then there the familiar squeak of the doorknob turning. She swallows nervously, expecting to see that irritating, smug face pop into view any second to berate her.  _ A proper ice queen now, aren’t we Namie?  _ It is a surprise then, to not see a face at all. The Black Rider stands above her, a smoking column of shadow where their neck should be. The figure doesn’t terrify Namie, she’s seen the Rider many times before in Izaya’s office, but she’s never interacted with it. Namie owned its head for most of her life, she often wonders if it found out it would come for revenge. Perhaps it would take her head as its own. Perhaps that time is now, she thinks, a Dullahan is a portent of death after all. 

 

The Rider doesn’t reach for her head, instead it thrusts an LCD screen in front of her face. The light blinds Namie for a second and blinks awkwardly. The Rider notices her discomfort and draws the device back, quickly swiping to turn the brightness down before placing it back in front of her. 

 

_ ‘Don’t panic, okay?’ _

 

Namie nods slowly, teeth still chattering loudly in her head. When she speaks her words were slurred and broken. “W-what’re y-you doing here?”

 

_ ‘I found you on the road,’  _ the Rider types, showing the screen back and forth.  _ ‘You must have been there for a while because you were freezing cold and you’d smacked your head pretty hard. I brought you home. My friend is a doctor so he looked over you. He said you’d be okay with rest and warmth. I asked him to stay until you woke up but he was called away to another job. Sorry about that.’ _

 

“Doctor Ki-Kishitani?” Namie asks. The Rider’s neck bends as if they were nodding. “Izaya kn-knows him from school.”

 

The Dullahan raises the PDA up and begins to type. It takes them longer than before, there are a few obvious pauses and slips that don’t go unnoticed.  _ ‘Yes. I recognised you. You’re his associate, right?’  _ Namie nods. Associate, yeah sure, she thinks to herself. More like his secretary-slash-carer. The Rider’s shoulders tense as if they’re anxious.  _ ‘Do you want me to call him?’ _

 

“No,” Namie replies, immediately. The response makes the Dullahan relax and their neck bobs twice in agreement. “I’m surprised he isn’t already here. How do you kn-know where I live?”

 

The Rider shuffles awkwardly, then holds up the PDA.  _ ‘Shizuo told me. We were riding together tonight when we found you.’ _

 

That’s who the deep voice belonged to, of course. Namie lets out a painful breath and manages to push herself up until she’s sitting with her back against the headboard. “Is he here?”

 

_ ‘He’s waiting in the living room,’  _ the Dullahan replies. ‘ _ He said you’d probably feel safer speaking with a female after you just woke up.’ _

 

Namie blinks and moves her gaze quickly up and down the Rider’s body. It’s not obvious at first but there’s definitely a feminine shape beneath the leather, a few curves here and there that indicate that they are a she. The head she’d studied for all those years was a pretty thing but its features were rather androgynous and marred by the wicked grin that nearly split the face in two. 

 

“What’s your name?” she asks, hoarsely. Her whole body is aching from the effort of sitting up but there’s no way she’s letting herself slip back into sleep, especially since she hit her head. 

 

The Rider held up her PDA. ‘ _ Celty Sturluson’ _ .

 

“Namie Y-Yagiri,” she replies, holding out a shaking hand. The Rider hesitates but eventually lift their gloved hand and settles it into Namie’s. “Thank you for helping me.” 

 

They shake formally and Namie sinks down into the pillows, pulling the covers up so they cover her breasts. 

 

‘ _ Did you get jumped?’  _ Celty questions, gesturing with her free hand to Namie’s head.  _ ‘Did one of Izaya’s clients get to you?’ _

 

“No, I- I slipped and fell,” she answers, somewhat embarrassed. “I was cold.”

 

‘ _ Shinra said you’d been outside for quite a while to get-’  _ Celty pauses and pulls the PDA back so she can delete the rest of the message before Namie can read it. Her black-clad fingers move without touching the keypad until Namie raises a brow and she starts typing again.  _ ‘You have some scrapes on your face. And a few blisters.’ _

 

Namie frowns and motions with her head to the dresser on the other side of the room. She isn’t a particularly vain woman but she’d like to see the damage to her face nonetheless. “There’s a mirror on the table. Could you pass it to me?” The Rider moves across the room to retrieve the mirror as requested and it’s only as she’s walking back that Namie remembers her fingers won’t close. “Could you hold it up to my face? My hands are- uh. Not working.”

 

Celty sits down on the edge of the bed and places the mirror down next to her. She reaches for Namie’s hand, which she allows the Dullahan to take. The creature’s fingers are gentle, stroking over her swollen palm carefully. After an initial moment of tenseness, she relaxes into the cold touch of Celty’s hand. It’s comforting in a way she hasn’t felt since childhood, since her Mother actually gave a damn about how she felt. Namie closes her eyes and tries to recall the lullaby she used to sing - the same one that she would sing to Seiji years later -  but she can’t quite remember the tune. 

 

_ ‘You should be more careful. It’s freezing out there,’  _ Celty writes, lowering Namie’s hand back onto the covers.  _ ‘Your hands should be okay once they thaw out. Shinra said they might blister as well, so it could be painful.’ _

 

Namie glances at the mirror and then back at the space where the Dullahan’s head should be. An uncomfortable feeling runs down her spine. She is by no means a vain woman but the side of her face is throbbing with pain and she is growing anxious about the extent of the damage. “Is it bad?”

 

A loud bang from the living room draws their attention away. Celty places a hand on Namie’s arm when she jumps and quickly taps out something on her PDA.  _ ‘I’ll see what’s going on. It’s probably just Shizuo walking into things. He’s rather clumsy.’ _

 

The Rider strides out of the room and shuts the door quietly behind her, leaving Namie to listen closely at the sound of crashing from outside. What on Earth is happening? Her gaze dips back down to the mirror on the bed. Curiosity makes her sit up and slide her sore hands beneath the circular frame so that she can raise it up to her face. She can’t grip it, so the angle is awkward and the glass slips a few times but eventually she manoeuvres herself into a workable position. 

 

It’s not as bad as she imagined but it isn’t good either. There shallow wounds along her forehead and down her jaw that have scraped off her pale skin to reveal raw flesh. That must have been from where she tripped and crashed the concrete. On her cheekbone and the side of her chin are a number of open sores, these much deeper than the scrapes. A lot of the skin looks like plastic, it’s a strangely shiny red colour compared to the rest of her face as if she’s been burned. White blisters stick out from these red patches, most of them intact but one has burst and smudged across her face. Namie wrinkles her nose in disgust and drops the mirror back onto the bed. What a fool, she berates herself, if Celty hadn’t found her she might have frostbite. Thankfully the wounds only looked superficial and she doesn’t doubt that they’ll fade somewhat in time. 

 

There’s a loud bang at the door as if something has been thrown against it which startles her from her thoughts. She sits up and drags the covers up to cover her chest as best she can with her aching hands. Another crash, then the door flies open and bedlam crashes into the room. First comes Izaya who narrowly avoids tripping and stumbles back against the end of her bed. Although he’s facing away from her, Namie can see a vicious looking knife in his hand which she recognises from her kitchen. He’s wobbling slightly and she hears him hiss, clearly still in pain from his recent injuries. Shizuo comes stomping through the door after him, a vein clearly throbbing in his forehead. His face is a startling shade of crimson, most likely due to the presence of the informant and the three large slashes across the front of his bartender’s uniform. THe Dullahan and Shinra Kishitani follow Shizuo, the former tapping frantically on her PDA as the latter watches the scene with an amused smile. 

 

Just as Shizuo grabs Izaya’s collar and hauls him onto his tiptoes, he notices Namie watching them from the other end of the bed. Instantly he drops the other man and pushes him onto the floor, kicking the knife out of his hand to the other side of the room. 

 

“Always so rough, monster,” Izaya huffs, trying to sit up and failing. He grasps his stomach and looks across the room to Shinra. “Could you help a friend up?”

 

Shinra laughs cheerily and shakes his head. “You don’t have ‘a friend’, Izaya.”

 

The informant scowls and uses the corner of the bed to drag himself up onto his feet, at which point he catches Namie glowering at him. “Ah, there she is!”

 

Celty crosses the room and stands at Namie’s side. From the way she’s stabbing her finger at the PDA screen, she’s pissed off - Namie understands how she feels. ‘ _ I’m so sorry! Shinra went to see Izaya and he insisted on coming to see you. They are like CHILDREN.’ _

 

“It’s not your fault,” Namie tells her, shaking her head. She glares at the men standing at the end of the bed and tightens her hands around the covers. “Get out. I’m not dressed.” 

 

Shinra whistles and spins around on his heel. As he walks into the other room, he calls back to them. “You let Celty be in there. Karisawa would have a field day with this!”

 

“Uh, sorry,” Shizuo mumbles, flushing with embarrassment. He grabs ahold of Izaya’s throat and picks him up off the floor with no effort at all. An irritated expression crosses his face as soon as their eyes meet and Izaya gives him a lazy grin despite the iron grip around his neck. “Come on, you pervert.”

 

“Not -  _ agh  _ \- a pervert,” Izaya hisses. He starts hitting Shizuo’s face with one hand while the other clutches at his wounded abdomen. “Put me down!”

 

The two foes move outside, still bickering loudly at one another. They don’t close the door, so Celty extends her arm and a shadow bursts from the end. The shadow smacks hard into the wood and it swings shut with a loud bang. Celty jerks and drops her hand back to her PDA. 

 

_ ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to shut it that hard!’ _

 

Namie gives the creature a faint smile. Celty is so human, it’s endearing. “It’s fine. If it had been Shizuo or Izaya the door would be off its hinges.”

 

The Rider’s shoulders move as if she’s laughing as she sits down on the side of the bed next to the other woman.  _ ‘Will you be okay by yourself for a little while? I should probably help Shinra keep them apart. I can come back in the morning to check up on you?’ _

 

“I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep,” she answers, looking down at her hands. “You don’t have to come back, it’s not worth the bother.”

 

_ ‘No bother. I’d be worried about you.’ _

 

She furrows her brow and glances past the PDA to stare at the plume of smoke emitting from Celty’s neck. “You barely know me.”

 

_ ‘Maybe not,’  _ Celty admits.  _ ‘But I’d still be worried. Would it be okay for me to come check on you at around 11AM tomorrow?’ _

 

Would you be worried, Namie thinks. Why would you be worried? The Dullahan has no idea who she is, nor of the things she has done. If she did, Namie doesn’t doubt that there wouldn’t be a shred of care given about her wellbeing. Sympathy is not a feeling she has felt often or one that has been directed at her, so part of her is suspicious of the Rider’s intentions. After a moment to collect her thoughts, she shakes her head. 

 

“I would prefer to relax on my own, if that’s alright? If you leave your phone number I can always message you if needed,” she says, wearily. Exhaustion is starting to catch up with her now, the muscles keeping her sat upright are going slack and it takes all her strength not to slide flat onto the mattress. 

 

Celty nods and stands, picking up her helmet from the bedside table. ‘ _ I’ll leave it outside on the table. Are you sure you’ll be okay?’ _

 

Just as Namie is about to nod, a loud creak sounds from the doorway and draws the women’s attention away from one another. Izaya is leaning against the doorframe, so casually it’s almost as he’s forgotten about the nasty stab wound in his side. The kitchen knife is still in his hand, held delicately between his thin fingers like a conductor’s baton. His usual smirk is strangely absent, instead he’s staring at Namie with an indiscernible look in his eyes. He takes a step forward and places the knife down on the chest of drawers beside the door.  

 

“I’m going to stay tonight,” he states. Namie’s brow dips and she opens her mouth to complain but pauses when he holds up a hand and limps a little further into the room. His injuries are more obvious when he moves and when he gets closer she notices that he looks like he’s about to buckle under his own weight. “No arguing. Shizu-chan has tired me out, I want to sleep.”

 

_ ‘Should I drag him out of here?’  _ Celty asks. 

 

Namie stares blankly at Izaya, trying to assess his intentions. Eventually she shakes her head and looks back at the Rider. “He’s been stabbed so he probably shouldn’t move any further tonight.”

 

“Thank you, Namie,” Izaya hums, pleased with himself. 

 

She narrows her eyes at him. “If you bleed on my sofa you’re paying for it to get cleaned.”

 

Celty walks up to the informant and Namie notices the way her entire posture changes. Her muscles stiffen and she draws herself upward, clearly trying to convey that she is  _ not  _ intimidated by him. Izaya’s expression doesn’t budge, he’s far too proud a man to admit that the Dullahan is a more powerful creature than he. 

 

‘ _ Don’t do anything stupid,” _ Celty warns. She places her helmet back onto the space where her head should be and moves silently out of the room, closing the door gently behind her. 

 

The sound of Shinra squealing comes from the other room. Footsteps grow quiet, there’s a slam, then silence. Izaya lets out a breath and slumps onto one side, dropping the facade of ease that he tried to maintain around the others. He runs a hand through his hair and glances up at Namie through his lashes. 

 

“What happened?” 

 

“I slipped.”

 

Izaya scoffs and limps forward until he can sit on the end of the bed. He faces away from her, fingers laced together in his lap. “We both know that’s a lie.”

 

His tone irks her more than it should but she’s too tired to do little more than intensify her glare. When she speaks, it’s through tightly grit teeth. “ _ You _ don’t know jack shit, Izaya.”

 

There’s silence for a little while, then the informant shifts so that he can face her. The position clearly hurts him, from the way his body is trembling slightly but no pain registers on his face. The smile on his face is oddly distant. 

 

“Shizu-chan didn’t want me here at all. He was so angry, you know, I thought he might really kill me.” he pauses, shifts again to move his weight into a more comfortable position. “He said that I was going to fuck your life up. ‘ _ Like you fuck everything up, flea _ ’. I told him that clearly he didn’t know you at all.”

 

“What do you mean?” Namie asks, wearily. 

 

Izaya’s gaze seems to come back into focus and his smile falls into his trademark leer. “I mean - you’re quite capable of fucking up your own life, Namie. You don’t need my help for that.”

 

Namie is well aware of that fact and for once, she isn’t going to lie to herself and pretend that everything is Izaya’s fault. Life is shit, it’s shit and that’s her own doing - but fuck if she is going to let it stay this way. The informant slowly gets to his feet and starts to head toward the door. 

 

“Izaya,” she calls, quietly. He turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised. It’s time to sort yourself out, Namie thinks to herself. Any more of this and she’ll go completely insane. “I’m going to accept a job at Nebula. In America.”

 

He doesn’t look surprised, in fact he barely bats an eyelid before speaking again. “I see. Shall I take this as your official resignation?”

 

“Yes,” Namie answers, nodding. She wonders if he knew about the offer and expected her to decline. There’s a touch of disappointment in the ways his brows scrunch together, only for a second but it’s telling for someone who keeps his true feelings concealed beneath a mask at all times. 

 

The informant nods and turns on his heel. As he talks he stumbles toward the door. “Well, I can write you a good reference if it’s needed. You’ve been a good-“

 

Perhaps she has already gone insane. But she can’t stop herself from calling out to him. 

 

“Izaya,” she interrupts. Again, he turns back. Namie shuffles onto one side of the bed, grunting as her bruised limbs twinge with pain. “You can stay here if you want. It’ll be more comfortable.”

 

Izaya raises a brow but slowly walks over the the unoccupied half of the bed. He grabs the edge of the cover but pauses and glances up at her curiously. “Didn’t you say you were naked?”

 

Namie narrows her eyes at him. “Yes.”

 

“Do you want me to get you pajamas or something?” he replies, cheeks reddening a touch. 

 

It’s amusing to see Izaya get flustered, even if it’s only slight. Namie scoffs and moves her gaze up and down his body. “What are you - a teenager?”

 

“I am simply being thoughtful, Namie d-“

 

“Take your clothes off,” she orders. “Then we’re square.”

 

Izaya’s mouth opens and shuts in surprise and the look brings a smirk to her face. Clearly her expression goads him enough to make him reach for his belt buckle. She sinks below the covers as he undresses down to his boxers and throws his clothes into a pile on the floor. There’s blood crusted around the stab wound but Namie can’t be bothered to tell him to clean up. Her scrapes are still raw and bleeding so she’ll have to change the sheets anyway. Izaya gets beneath the covers and she notices that he doesn’t look away - polite,  _ indeed.  _ She switches off the lamp and they lay together in the dark, both wounded and exhausted. 

 

“You didn’t have to come here,” Namie says, rolling onto her side. “You were stabbed you idiot, you should be resting.”

 

It’s too dark to see but she can picture him rolling his eyes. “Well, excuse me for giving a shit.”

 

“You  _ don’t  _ give a shit,” she replies, wrinkling her nose. “About anything.”

 

He turns his head and she can see the shine of his eyes in the darkness. “Do you think I would bother coming all the way out here, getting into a spat with Shizu-chan and sleeping  _ naked  _ beside you if I didn’t have a modicum of care? You must be more stupid than I thought.”

 

His words and tone are unpleasant but her stomach squirms and her cheeks grow hot and before she knows it she’s leaning on his chest to kiss him. Izaya flinches in pain at the pressure but she doesn’t move and he doesn’t push her away so she continues. He’s warm, responsive and yes, she admits to herself, yes Izaya  _ does  _ care about her. What a ridiculous truth. Izaya makes a low noise and she moves back to let him speak. His ragged breath spills out onto her face and causes pain to flare where the skin has been scraped away. 

 

“Namie, are you wanting to-?”

 

“What?” 

 

“Have sex.”

 

She tenses. It’s more difficult to process when he says it out loud. Doesn’t she hate this man? Doesn’t she think he is a no-good, rotten-to-the-core piece of shit? Well, yes, that’s exactly what he is but he’s also a competent match of intelligence and as unbelievable as it seems, he cares about her. 

 

“Because I’ve been stabbed and you nearly froze to death earlier, I’m not sure either of us can take the physical strain of intercourse right now,” Izaya continues. 

 

The statement makes her laugh, a sound so pleasantly genuine that it surprises her. She rolls onto her back and closes her eyes, a soft smile still on her face. “As if I’d want to have sex with you anyway.” 

 

Izaya chuckles and reaches for one of her sore hands. He wraps his fingers gently around hers, taking care not to hurt her. It’s an odd action, too affectionate and gentle to be associated with someone like Izaya Orihara, but it gives her a strange sense of comfort. 

 

“This is enough,” he says, with a yawn. “Night Namie.”

 

“Night Izaya.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. The informant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about Izaya. The next will be about Shizuo, then the final two will be back with Namie. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

Izaya shuts his laptop with an exaggerated sigh and stands up, stretching his arms up into the air. It has been a long day. Shiki was asking a lot of him in his latest case, it has taken all day just to track down the location of the target in question. He doesn’t mind, the information broker has the privilege of enjoying his job, but he’s looking forward to the having the evening off. A loud growl rumbles low in his stomach. It must have been hours since he last ate and he feels like rewarding himself for his hard work, so he rummages through one of the desk drawers to find a pizza menu.

 

“Do you want pizza, Na-?” he trails off, fingers tightening around the smooth coated paper. 

 

Of course, he chides himself, there’s no need to ask her. Izaya shuts the drawer and drops back down into his chair, gaze shifting to look at the desk on the other side of the room. The pen cup is empty, the coffee cup is empty, the chair is empty. There’s a post-it note on the desk that she left him with an email address and a phone number, then the words ‘ _ just in case’. _ In what case, Izaya thinks, lips twisting into a resentful smile. He leans back in his seat and spins around so that he can look out of the window at the dim Spring evening. Ikebukuro looks gorgeous in this light but it doesn’t warm him at all. He’s told himself over and over that it’s not the absence of the woman who used to sit across the room. Izaya is far from stupid, he knows the truth deep down, but he’s also too proud to acknowledge that. 

 

Izaya loves all humans, Namie was nothing special - he tells himself that everyday too. He allows himself a moment, every now and then, to picture her glaring at him from behind her desk or to imagine the way her hand felt in his that night they slept beside one another. Part of him wonders if he should have spoken to her about everything that happened between them instead of slipping back behind his favourite mask and severing any feeling he may have held for her. Or at least, that was what he tried to do. It is only now that she is gone that he realises that he hadn’t cut the whole way through. A petty affair cannot get in the way of his plans, he thinks, as he stands and moves closer to the window. The gang violence seems to be reaching its crescendo, the Dullahan’s head is still in his cupboard - everything is primed and ready to go as soon as he clicks his fingers. There’s only one more thing to do before he sets everything in motion. 

 

He’s going to kill Shizu-chan.  _ Really  _ kill him. The trap is being set. The gasoline canisters are already in place. There’s a few explosives to put in place and then he’ll be ready. A grim smile slides across his face as his gaze flickers back and forth across the cityscape. Fighting monsters requires a collected mind, nothing can distract him. He raises a hand and splays his forefinger and thumb to create the shape of a gun. Izaya starts pretending to fire at random points across the city, laughing highly at his own immaturity. 

 

“Bang! Bang! Down you go Shizuo!” he exclaims, happily. He blows across the top of the ‘barrel’ and lowers his hand back to his side. The excited smile on his face slowly fades and he turns back to look at the empty desk. “What do you think Namie? You’d probably tell me not to kill him and to get on with the rest of it, huh? You’d probably tell me that I’m obsessed with him, wouldn’t you?”

 

Izaya rolls his eyes at the imaginary woman glowering at him from her desk chair and strides across the room to stand in front of her. 

 

_ You’re an idiot.  _

 

“You’re so mean, Namie,” he says, stonily. The woman’s expression doesn’t change, she remains as cold and unfriendly as she’s ever been. It’s better if he remembers her like that. Better than intelligent and thoughtful and oddly  _ warm _ \- he cuts himself off before he goes too far. “It’s nothing to do with obsession, I just need him out of the way.”

 

_ Were you jealous?  _

 

Izaya narrows his eyes at the vision. “What are you talking about?”

 

_ Were you jealous that the only two people you’d ever felt anything for found one another? That we found one another and left you alone, again? _

 

The informant tenses and turns away from Namie’s desk, hate burning in his eyes. It’s his own conscience speaking but he doesn’t listen. “You’re wrong. I hate Shizu-chan and I don’t care about you.”

 

_ The only person you care about is yourself, ain’t that right?  _ The voice coming from behind him has dipped lower, into a harsh growl that he recognises from the streets. Izaya turns back around and imagines Shizuo leaning against the desk, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. The blond gives him a sinister grin and cocks his head to the side.  _ Planning on killin’ me, huh? Couldn’t admit you want me so you’re gonna set me on fire, Iz-a-ya? Seems a little dramatic, even for you.  _

 

“I don’t  _ want  _ you, Shizu-chan,” Izaya hisses, taking a step away from Shizuo. “I despise you.”

 

The figure of Namie fades in from nothingness, standing a few feet away from him on the right.  _ Do you ever stop lying to yourself? _

 

“I love  _ humans,  _ not m-”

 

_ Yes, yes,  _ Namie snaps, rolling her eyes.  _ You love all humans - except us. We’re different aren’t we, Izaya? You hate us.  _

 

“Yes! I-”

 

Namie throws him a deathly glare.  _ I think you may have those two emotions mixed up.  _

 

Shizuo blows out a plume of smoke.  _ He doesn’t know what honesty is.  _

 

_ Maybe if he did, one of us would have stayed.  _ Namie agrees. She looks at the informant and purses her lips.  _ I thought you didn’t want to die alone? Remember? _

 

Izaya stamps his foot like a child and rushes across the room, waving his hands through the apparitions. “Shut up!”

 

He throws himself back into his chair and turns back to his computer, no longer hungry for anything but the manic gossip of his favourite chat-rooms. It’s been a while since he’s logged on. Life moves so quickly online that it’s an adequate distraction from the voices in his head. The chat messages  _ ping _ loudly, echoing around the empty room, but it’s still not enough to keep him from looking back up at Namie’s desk. The vision of the woman is sitting there, alone now, watching him with passive eyes. 

 

“What?” he sighs, fingers stilling on the keyboard. “I don’t have anything else to say. You’re not even real, you left for America months ago.”

 

_ You should stop dwelling on the past Izaya. You didn’t bother to tell me the truth - like a scared little boy - and now you’re alone. That was your decision.  _

 

Izaya scoffs and waves a hand at her. “The decision was made for me. Far be it from me to keep you here when you received a better offer.”

 

_ Better offer? _

 

“You’re a scientist, Namie,” he says, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Nebula, America - it’s better than making cups of coffee for me, right?”

 

The woman’s cold expression doesn’t change.  _ Yes, it is better. I will be happy.  _

 

“Good. Your gloomy face was beginning to tarnish the beauty of my home anyway.”

 

_ Liar.  _

 

Izaya grimaces and fixes Namie with a stern glare. “Go away.” 

 

The apparition complies with his request and fades away, leaving the informant alone. He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head - he’s been alone this entire time, hasn’t he? What a fool. A private message pops up on his screen from ‘Taro Tanaka’ and he hums thoughtfully. It’s been a while since he’s spoken to Ryuugamine and with any luck the boy will have been pushed in the right direction by his influential words. Izaya smiles and leans back in his chair, watching the messages scroll quickly up the screen. 

 

_ There was a fight between the Blue Squares and the Yellow Scarves in Ikebukuro Park at midday.  _ Someone says the Yellow Scarves won, another backs the Blue Squares. It is all predictable and he can tell who is behind the faceless icons by the tone of the text. 

 

_ Yuuhei Hanejima is starring in a new movie! Yuuhei is looking better than ever! Yuuhei Yuuhei Yuuhei!  _ The splurge of text that comes after is undoubtedly from his sisters. 

 

_ Does anyone know what happened to the Slasher? Did they ever find out? Huh, didn’t Shizuo Heiwajima kill them in that park brawl? I dunno man, I’ve seen people with glowing red eyes since then. Oh no way! Yes way, y’know - I have a feeling that something’s brewing. There’s definitely something bad on the horizon. _ Izaya smiles and thinks of the two best friends, Masaomi and Mikado, trying to reconnect from miles apart. Warning Mikado won’t do you any good, he thinks, he’s set on his course just as you are set on yours. He makes note to intimidate Masaomi with a little more aggression the next time he sees him. It wouldn’t do any good to have insubordination in the ranks. 

 

_ Shizu-Shizu was sure looking grumpy today! I don’t know why, he’s got that gorgeous blonde following him around - wish I had a gorgeous blonde following me around. Don’t worry Dotachin, you’ll find your princess one day. Not while I hang around with you guys, you’d probably try and seduce her. I can’t help my natural sensuality, hehe!  _ Always so excitable and carefree, that bunch. Izaya leaves them alone for the most part and if he’s perfectly honest, he’s a little wary of Erika and Walker. Their actions are often utterly unpredictable and he has no time for such anomalies when he’s getting his plans in order. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices the icon bar containing the users online. Most members of the chat room are set to active, though a few are greyed out - Saika, Saki, Jun. Then he notices one at the bottom, outlined with the tell-tale green of an online user. It’s a name he recognises - it’s one of  _ his  _ user profiles. Chrome sits, watching the conversation pass without a word. The account isn’t idle, so they must been keeping up with the messages, and the small timestamp beneath their log-in shows that they are hours behind the time on his clock. He counts backward on his fingers - it’d be two in the morning in New York. Izaya leans over the computer and logs himself in as Kanra. He chews the inside of his cheek as his fingers settle on the keys and he wonders if the squirming in his stomach is purely from hunger. Deciding on the right thing to say takes him a while, then he clicks open a private chat window and lets out a breath, almost laughing at himself for feeling so nervous. He settles on something obscure, in case it isn’t her. 

 

_ When shall we two meet again in thunder, lightning or rain?  _ He’s tweaked it, of course, but it’s still obvious enough to be recognised as Macbeth. 

 

The message arrives sooner than expected.  _ When the hurlyburly’s done. When the battle’s lost and won.  _

 

Izaya smiles to himself and runs a hand through his hair.  _ I’ll hold you to that.  _

 

_ So, it will all be over soon? _

 

_ Yes,  _ he replies, the small smile fading.  _ One way or another, it’ll all be over soon.  _

 

It takes a few minutes for the next message to arrive.  _ I know that there is nothing I can say to halt your plans, Izaya. So good luck.  _

 

He swallows and types out three words before deleting them.  _ It might be goodbye, so I’ll say it now. Goodbye, Namie. It was fun.  _

 

_ The cherry blossoms have started to bloom in the park _ , according to a message from ‘Setton’. Tomorrow he’ll take a picture of them and send it to Namie. Perhaps she’ll appreciate that. 

  
  
  



	12. The monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy. Two more to go. :) Thanks for all the lovely comments, I'm so happy people are enjoying this.

It has been another long ass day. Too many thugs in debt, too many punches thrown, not nearly enough cigarettes smoked. Thankfully he’s got a brand new packet in his pocket and one currently stuck between his lips, smoke burning pleasantly in the back of his throat. He doesn't care that it's bad for him, everything he does it bad for him, just look at the state of his hands. His knuckles are raw, split open and his fingers are bleeding from multiple impacts on both faces and concrete. There's still a bit of dust and grit clinging to the blood but Shizuo doesn't care that much about infection, he’ll just have to wash the wounds clean when he’s inside.

He fishes inside his pocket for his keys and taps the cigarette with his other hand to let the excess ash crumble to the ground. It’s beginning to rain lightly, he can feel spray wetting his face, so he is he’s glad that he’s home. It had been a lovely week before today, all sunshine and pretty spring blossoms but it’s bound to downpour tomorrow. Why? Because it’s his day off and he has shitty luck. Shizuo doesn't like it when it rains, it makes the city miserable. All he wants is a hot shower, a couple of beers and some of that expensive steak Kasuka brought with him last time he visited that's still sitting in his fridge. His mouth starts salivating at the very thought as it was rare for him to have such high-quality food in the house. Usually he survived on a diet formed predominantly of rice, raw eggs, booze and chocolate. Shizuo was the first to admit he didn't exactly live the healthiest lifestyle. It didn't really matter, his body didn't seem in the least bit affected by his mistreatment, it was stronger and more monstrous than ever.

 

_ Monster _ .

How he hates that insult, it always rings over and over in his head during his rages, stoking his anger only further. He hates the insult but he hates the man who who spits it most even more. Shizuo quickly pushes the thought of the flea out of his mind and grinds his teeth together in annoyance. At least he didn't see him today, that was a positive. The man flicks his cigarette away so that he can wrench open his front door and he slips his keys back into his pocket as he crosses the threshold. It’s been a couple of days since he’s seen the informant and their last encounter was odd to say the least.

 

-

 

It was just another Tuesday, he’d clocked out at around two o’clock in the afternoon as he had to use up some of his holiday allowance. Shizuo rarely took time off and occasionally Tom had to force him into it as he worried that too much fighting would damage his employee-slash-friend irreparably. Their last job had been in Shinjuku, so Shizuo decided to go take a walk around Shinjuku Gyoen before heading back to Ikebukuro to pick up some food from the supermarket. The park was busy, bustling with couples and families come to look at the blooming cherry blossoms lining the pathways. The ex-bartender breathed in the heady fragrance of the flowers and smiled gently at the peace of the park. People moved out of his way, they whispered and stared, and it added an unwanted level of discomfort to the afternoon. Shizuo never wanted people to fear him, he just wanted a quiet, simple life. Unfortunately, fate had plotted out a different route for him. 

 

An unpleasant smell hit him like a smack in the face. Almost immediately his body tensed, blood pounded louder in his ears and his jaw clenched so hard that his teeth ground loudly together. The source of the smell was standing several feet away, leaning against a fence. He was looking across the small river beyond the fence at a large blossom which was swaying gently in the wind. Izaya hadn’t noticed him, which brought a nasty grin to Shizuo’s face. Time to beat the living shit out of that evil little fleabag. He approached, rolling up his sleeves, but stopped when he noticed the out-of place expression on Izaya’s face. Instead of his usual look of twisted amusement, he looked downcast. His eyes were absent of their usual life and his mouth was turned down in a slight frown. If Shizuo didn’t know any better he would have said that the man looked  _ upset.  _ However, he knew Izaya better than most and didn’t believe he was capable of feeling such an emotion. 

 

The informant slid a hand into his pocket and took out his phone, unlocking it swiftly with a swipe of his thumb. He chewed on his bottom lip as he held the device upright, pointing the camera toward the sakura. Shizuo frowned and walked the short distance between them with his fists clenched but safely pushed inside his pockets for the time being.

 

“Oi, flea,” he grunted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

 

Izaya turned to look at him and his brow furrowed in annoyance. “I’m not in Ikebukuro, Shizu-chan. I’m not doing anything wrong, so can we skip our little dance for today?”

 

“Huh?” Shizuo replied, wrinkling his nose. The informant was acting weird, he never turned down the opportunity to taunt him. The sudden change startled him enough to calm him down considerably, so he withdrew his hands from his pockets and his fists relaxed. “Whatever. I’m not in the mood to fight today either.”

 

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, then Izaya sighed and looked back at the cherry blossom. He jerked his head toward it and Shizuo cautiously approached and leaned on the fence beside him. The informant showed Shizuo his phone and the picture of the sakura he’d taken. 

 

“It’s pretty, right?” he asked, emotion indiscernible in his tone. He placed the phone back into his pocket and glanced sideways at Shizuo. “I was going to send it to Namie. I don’t know if she’ll get to see any in America.”

 

“She’s in New York, right?” Shizuo answered. He missed the look Izaya gave him, which initially began as shock but soon darkened into something different. “She’ll be able to see some in uh - what’s the bit called? Brooklyn. There’s a festival there or something.”

 

Izaya looked back at the sakura and scowled despite its beauty. “Is that right? And how would a moron like you know that?”

 

“Fuck you,” the blond growled, shoving his elbow into Izaya’s side. The other man smirked but there was something off about it - more off than usual, Shizuo thought. “I visited Kasuka in New York a couple of times while he was filming over there.”

 

“Recently?”

 

Shizuo took a cigarette from the box in his top pocket and slid it into his mouth. The informant watched him closely as he lit the tip and took in a drag. “Yeah, couple of weeks ago. I thought you knew everything about this city, flea?”

 

“I’m not interested in your life.”

 

“That’s a fuckin’ lie, Iz-a-ya,” Shizuo spat, starting to get angry. He noticed a family quickly move away from their position on the fence beside him and took in a deep drag of smoke. “You’re far too interested in what I’m doing and where I am so that you can fuck up my life.”

 

Izaya narrowed his eyes, clearly pissed off with Shizuo’s outburst. “Did you get to see our mutual friend in New York?”

 

“No, she was busy,” he said, shaking his head. So  _ that  _ was what the little shit was so annoyed about? A smile of disbelief spread across his face and he pushed away from the fence. “Are you jealous or something?”

 

“As if I’d ever be jealous of  _ you, _ ” Izaya hissed, turning his head to glower at the blond. 

 

“You’ve been jealous of me for years,” Shizuo laughed, unpleasantly. He flicked the smoking butt of his cigarette at the other man and it hit him square in the chest. Izaya took a step back and brushed the ash off his shirt, lips pursing in anger. “You’re jealous ‘cos I make friends even though I’m a ‘monster’, ain’t that right? Because I like being alone and people still come to me? Because you shout all that shit about love and you’re  _ still  _ shunned by everyone? Pathetic, really. Not that I feel sorry for you. You bring this shit on yourself, y’know?”

 

Izaya didn’t reply, he simply looked at the cigarette butt that was still smoking on the ground. His jaw was tight, the bones sticking out from beneath his sickly-looking skin and his fists were clenched as Shizuo’s had been. The ex-bartender felt strangely at ease - perhaps beating Izaya’s mind was just as gratifying as punching him in the face. 

 

“Nothin’ to say, huh? Good, it’s so rare that you shut your fucking mouth,” Shizuo said, a twisted grin still on his face. “Look, flea, if you were jealous you should have told her the truth and stopped fucking around. You should have told lots of people the truth, then maybe you’d-” 

 

He paused, uncertain of the direction his brain was taking him.  _ Maybe you’d have friends.  _ Part of him had always wondered if their meeting had been different, then maybe - but then his usual anger takes over and he had never finished the thought. 

 

“Maybe I’d what?” Izaya interrupted, harsh gaze lifting to meet Shizuo’s. A moment passes, a strange moment that Shizuo still can’t fathom entirely. The informant was usually calm, even when he was angry or elated but at there was a flicker of pure rage that caught Shizuo off-guard. His pale cheeks flushed and his shoulders shook with the effort it took to keep himself in check. “My personal life is none of your business, Shizu-chan. And for the record I don’t care about Namie - or you. I can’t stand either of you. Do what you want. Become pen-pals! See if I care!”

 

Before Shizuo could answer, a flick knife buried itself deep into his shoulder. 

 

“Next time I speak to you it will be to say goodbye,” Izaya spat, viciously. There was no humour in his eyes and for once the threat of death seemed  _ honest _ . “I’m going to kill you, Shizuo.”

 

The blond watched as the other man turned on his heel and walked out of sight. He wrapped a hand around the handle of the knife and pocketed the weapon so he didn’t leave it for someone else to find. The wound was bloody but it barely registered as a scratch to him, it wouldn’t need Shinra’s assistance. Shizuo turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction to Izaya, lighting another cigarette. That was the first time the informant had ever called him by his real name. 

 

_ “Not if I kill you first.” _

 

-

 

The ex-bartender throws his keys on the table and shakes his head in confusion at the memory. Izaya is far more fucked up than he thought. He quickly strips off his shirt and moves into the bedroom, running a hand over the plaster he’s slapped over the stab wound. It stings a little but it’s nothing serious. He carefully folds his shirt and places it on the end of the bed. His trousers come next and are given the same delicate treatment. No matter how drunk or tired he is, he never forgets to fold the clothes gifted to him by Kasuka at the end of the day. As he pulls on his sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, he notices the postcard still sitting on his bedside table. It arrived a few months ago, with a picture of a busy, yellow-cab filled road on the front and some neatly written cursive on the back. 

 

_ Shizuo, _

 

_ Greetings from New York. I trust this postcard finds you well. I am sorry to have departed without notice, I’m afraid I was in rather a rush. I wanted to say thank you to you (and Ms Sturluson) for assisting me that night. I do not doubt that I would have been in far more trouble if you were not there. I also wanted to thank you for the brief time I knew you personally, your kindness put a lot of things into perspective for me.  _

 

_ And lastly, though it is not my job to do so anymore, I want to apologise for the actions of ‘the flea’. I know he has ruined opportunities for you countless times before and will probably continue to do so in the future. If I may offer a word of advice regarding this matter - Izaya is the loneliest creature I know. More so even than you or I. He has a strange way of thinking and I think at this point he is so far lost in his delusions that he believes them. He could never be honest with me - or you.  _

 

_ He ‘loves’ humanity - but not us. He ‘hates’ us, doesn’t care about us. He says that as if we are different but that isn’t the case. We’re the same flesh and blood (yours is a little stronger, I will admit) as the rest of the human race - so why does he single us out? There is a reason for it.  _

 

_ But that is enough about Izaya, it is no longer my problem. Just be careful.  _

 

_ If you are ever in New York, you have my number already. It would be nice to see a familiar face out here - the Americans are far too cheerful for my liking.  _

 

_ Best wishes, _

_ Namie Yagiri _

 

The postcard reads in her formal, clipped tone and it brings a smile to his face. Good for her, he thought, she was right to get out when she could. It’s not that he doesn’t love the city, in fact he’s quite in love with it, but there are aspects that could easily drive one to distraction. The colour gangs, the Dollars, the slasher -  _ him.  _

 

Shizuo re-reads the part of the postcard concerning Izaya a couple of times and wrinkles his nose. That part confuses him. He must have read it ten times now and he still doesn’t fully understand what she’s talking about. ‘ _ \- so why does he single us out? There is a reason for it’.  _ Namie puts herself in the same category as him there, as if they are on an equal level in Izaya’s mind. Surely that isn’t the case - Izaya despises him and seems to tenuously get along with Namie. He places the postcard back down onto the bedside table and grabs a box of cigarettes that’s resting next to it. 

 

He wonders whether Izaya ever felt anything for Namie or if it was just a misplaced sense of jealousy because he himself was interested in her. It seems unlikely but Shizuo has never seen the informant act with such genuine emotion around anyone but-

 

-but himself.

 

Something clicks and his mouth falls open. He sits in silence for a moment, going over the details in his head. After a moment he stands and moves away from the bed, face falling back into his usual scowl. There was no way in hell that could be true, so he wouldn’t think any further on the matter. It’s not like he felt anything but rage toward Izaya anymore. 

  
  
  
  
  



	13. still/motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more left. :) Hope you've enjoyed it so far. I'm thinking of writing a couple more Namie/Izaya things, maybe a Namie/Shizuo one or possibly even a Namie/Vorona - does anyone have any preferences or ideas? I'd be up for any non-minor ship to be honest!

“Dr Yagiri?”

“Hmm?” the brunette replies, turning on her heel to face the assistant who called her.

The young woman locks eyes with her for a moment, then looks at the ground. People never hold her gaze for long. “Dr Rieu wanted me to give you this.”

Namie blinks, passive expression never changing. The assistant hands her a small envelope. She takes it slowly and tucks it into the pocket of her lab coat. Her eye seems to twitch in irritation.

“Is that it?” she asks, coldly.

The woman nods, swiftly turns on her heel and hastily walks back down the corridor to her station. Namie purses her lips and clenches her fingers around the plain envelope in her pocket, crinkling it beyond recognition. She doesn’t need it, she knows exactly what it is. Another invitation to the gala. Namie doesn’t care about dressing up and going to some fancy event, she doesn’t care about socialising with her colleagues and she certainly doesn’t give a fuck about Dr Francis Lieu. She scowls at the thought of him. The woman picks up the file she had been processing and places it in the relevant tray. Finally done for the day. Her most recent project has been interesting - mainly dissecting the bodies of strange, non-human creatures that Nebula have finished testing. It’s fascinating and Namie enjoys her role, despite what other members of the company might say. 

 

_ Isn’t she that Yagiri woman? The one who stole the head? _

 

_ Yeah. Dunno why they employed her, it’s not like we can trust her.  _

 

_ Fuck no. She’s kind of creepy as well, ain’t she? Maybe it’s the whole ‘working with dead bodies’ vibe.  _

 

_ A bit I guess. And she’s a stone cold bitch. At least she’s hot.  _

She moves through the hospital corridors, staring blankly ahead with her head in the clouds. No-one attempts to speak to her, they know better than to disturb the strange, silent pathologist with the permanent frown. Namie prefers it that way, she enjoys the isolation provided by her dead patients and fearful colleagues. She moves into the locker room and begins to gather her belongings. The other members of staff call her a pathologist but that’s never what she’s considered her role to be. She doesn’t study the change in cells, nor disease, but instead the physical structure and chemical properties of the creatures’ form. It takes a long time, she has to map out bones, veins, muscles - that’s if the creature she’s studying even  _ has  _ those features to begin with. Today she was looking into the stomach of a strange sea creature, studying its last meal - some poor scuba diver by the look of the bone residue. It looks like those sharp bones and depressurised scuba equipment may have been what killed the beast. There’s a lot more to look into and with the rate the thing is decomposing, not enough time to do it. She finishes packing her bag and rubs her temples gently. Her head has been pounding since lunchtime - she needs a cigarette. 

“Headache?”

The scientist stands upright and turns her head to the side. Dr Lieu is standing in front of his locker, facing away from Namie. He’s shirtless, seemingly changing after finishing for the day. There are a set of scratch marks on his side, fairly fresh and raw-looking. She frowns and stands, grabbing her bag from the bench. There’s something about him that reminds her of all the worst parts of Izaya - the smarminess, the immaturity, the sharp bite of his words. He lacks Izaya’s innate charm and his playfulness and - and she can’t quite believe she’s favourably comparing Izaya to someone. 

 

It was a mistake, sleeping with Lieu. Namie blames it on the sudden shift in her life - new country, new job, new apartment. Everything was so torpid that, with the encouragement of wine and a few decent conversations, it happened. It was only once, months ago, but she never let it happen again. Why? Well, for that very same reason - he reminds her of Izaya. And there’s no fucking way she’s getting herself involved with that sort of person again. A quiet voice at the back of her head asks ‘why then, do you think of Izaya so much? Why do you miss him?’. Her lack of response didn’t seem to bother Francis, in fact he took her jabs with Orihara-like amusement. 

 

“None of your business,” she eventually replies, placing the satchel strap across her chest. She makes a point of speaking to Lieu with the utmost rudeness - it was all the man deserved in her opinion. 

Lieu chuckles and turned to face her, fixing her gaze. The man isn’t like his colleagues, he always looks her in the eye and he never breaks contact first. Namie tries not to visibly show her irritation, smoothing her expression into a blank mask. Lieu smiles. The warmth never reaches his eyes.  

“Always so unfriendly,” he comments, pulling on a t-shirt and navy sweater. He shuts his locker quietly. “Despite everything.”

“I have made my feelings toward you quite clear,” Namie states. “Or are you just ignorant?”

Lieu’s expression darkens slightly and Namie looks away from the unwavering blue eyes, ignoring the slight chuckle from the man. The woman starts to move toward the exit, but is halted when Francis’s arm shoots out in front of her chest and crashes into the lockers, blocking her trajectory. Namie narrows her eyes. Lieu doesn’t intimidate her, she was one of the few people who saw through his air of pleasance to the truth. He was a lifeless, heartless creature clothed in a handsome scientist’s skin. She has a lot of experience dealing with these sorts. 

“Move.”

“No.”

“Move,” Namie repeats, left eye twitching slightly. She cringes inwardly at the action - the tick has been present since she was a child, only appearing when she was nervous. It’s been happening a lot more since she moved to America, which seems ridiculous considering her old job. Francis notices and grins. 

“Did you get the invitation?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Yes.”

“Good. I take it we will see you there?”

“Is it mandatory?”

Lieu laughs lightly and lets the hand that had been resting on the locker drop to his side. “But of course.”

“Then definitely not,” Namie replies, walking past the man. She pauses when she feels Francis’s hand encompass her shoulder. She speaks calmly, but anger is bubbling beneath the surface. “Get your hand off m-.”

“It must be so hard moving out here and living all alone. You know, I’ve noticed that you’ve never once had a call or letter from Japan,” Lieu says, smoothly. Namie visibly stiffens, much to his satisfaction. He smiles as if sympathising, though they both know it is mocking. “Such a shame. Do your family and friends not care?”

“Shut up,” Namie replies, her voice unusually soft. “I’ve had cal-”

 

“Or maybe you don’t want them to find you. There’s lots of talk, y’know? About you,” he chuckles lightly, quirking his head to one side. “About how you came to be offered a job here.”

“I said  _ shut up _ ,” Namie responds. A muscle twitches in her cheek. “Are we done here?”

The man releases the brunette’s shoulder and gestures to the exit. “I think so.”

Namie moves toward the door with more haste than she intended. She doesn’t look back when she hears Lieu call to her. 

“I lost one of the victims of the hellhound attack today,” he says. “You remember? A team caught it out in the Nevada desert - attacked a bunch of cars driving down the high?”

The woman halts, but doesn’t look back. She knows that feeling, it isn’t one she wishes on anyone. The death of one you were trying to save affects everyone, even her. Namie often wonders if she is a bad person for feeling the same sadness and anger from a failed experiment as she does from these deaths.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“There was nothing more that could have been done,” Francis continues, nonchalantly. “But she was sweet, it was a shame. But we couldn’t let her bloodstream get infected with that monster shit. Would have turned her into something else.” 

“Children are the hardest to lose,” she answers, placing her hand on the doorknob. “But you can’t save everyone.”

“Spoken like a true pathologist,” the man muses, taking a seat on the bench. He looks up at the back of Namie’s head. “We all end up on your table in the end, don’t we?”

The woman opens the door, letting out a soft sigh as the ever-buzzing hum of the laboratories fill the locker room.

“Get home safe, Namie. You can always call me if you get lonely..”

Namie feels her eye twitch. Lonely. Yes, she is still lonely, isn’t she?

 

-

 

Her apartment is not too far from the office. It’s not as plush as the one in Ikebukuro but it was still far nicer than those rented by her peers. Izaya gave her a decent departing bonus and ‘decent’ to him was ‘extravagant’ to most. 

 

The pathologist is sitting on the sofa near the vast window, sipping her third glass of wine. A smoking cigarette hangs out of one corner of her mouth, her hands preoccupied by the laptop in front of her. She’s taken up smoking again and it’s become a bad habit that she can’t shake off no matter how many nicotine patches she slaps on her skin or gum she aggressively chews. It probably isn’t wise to be finishing up her reports whilst drinking, but she doesn’t care all that much - they will be well written regardless. Namie still doesn’t have much of a social life, so she often finds herself holed up in her apartment in the evenings. It means that she gets a lot of work done, but on the odd occasion she does find herself getting lonely. Sometimes she would think about going out to a local bar and pick up some pretty or handsome thing to play with for the evening but she’s never bothered venturing out. She knows that they will never be satisfying, never quite as delightful as she wants them to be. They are never the  _ person _ she wants them to be. She’s found a single solace these days, one she is not best pleased about. A tobacco-flavoured kiss, a pair of hate-filled red eyes and the distant memories of warm skin were hardly enough, but they are all she has.

 

Shizuo would probably blush if he knew what she was thinking at night. 

 

But Jesus Christ, if Izaya knew she was fucking herself while thinking of him - he would  _ never  _ let her forget it. 

 

She runs a hand through her hand and takes a long drag of her cigarette before tapping the ash into a tray on the table.  There’s an unopened letter on the table next to the ashtray, stamped from Japan, written in a familiar handwriting. Seiji’s. She’d visited him briefly before leaving Tokyo and surprisingly she felt very little at their impending separation. The image of his brother’s goodbye lingers in her mind. Namie sighs to herself - she isn’t certain when her love for Seiji became twisted. When they were young she did all she could to make him happy, she loved seeing him laugh, she always wanted his attention. It was only as they grew that things changed, when Seiji started to become infatuated with that damn head. And as he started to distance himself, Namie only wanted to pursue his love with more ferocity. Somewhere in this pursuit, love turned to obsession. She wanted to own Seiji, she was the only one good enough for him, the only one and he would make him see, even if he had to hurt him and destroy the head to make him see. 

 

It all seems so ridiculous now, she thinks. Namie lets out a sigh and a cloud of smoke dissipates in the air. Ridiculous.

The city hums outside but it isn’t as comforting as the bustle of Tokyo. No-one here wants to kill her, yet it feel so much less safe. She had no friends in Japan, but she feels even further from humanity here. America was meant to be a new start but her life has become more  _ nothing  _ than ever. Work, eat, smoke, drink, shower, sleep. Repeat. Sometimes she doesn’t speak to anyone, she simply remains alone in her lab with nothing but the dead for company. It’s  _ excruciating  _ and she finds herself missing the chaos of Ikebukuro, the troubles and fights, even Izaya.  _ Even Izaya.  _ Her stomach twists uncomfortably - yes, she does miss Izaya. 

 

It took him longer than expected to realise she was lurking in the chatroom. Their conversation was brief and neither of them had sent another message since. Namie doesn’t think she’ll be contacting him any time soon. He’s bound to realise she’s suffering and far be it from her to offer him any material to gloat. With a sigh she reaches for the notebook next to her laptop and slides out a small card from the pocket in the back. It’s a postcard with a picture of the Shinjuku Gaiden sakura on the front. The back is blank, save for the stamp. She smiles at it fondly and leans back on the sofa, the postcard raised in front of her eyes. Perhaps Shizuo sent it - she sent him one, after all. But he’s too affectionate not to write a message, so her mind drifts to other options. It can’t have been Seiji, he’s been emailing her every now and then with images of Tokyo and details of his life, so he wouldn’t need to mail a postcard. Perhaps Celty? That seems more likely but Namie isn’t certain if she knew her US address. That only really leaves Izaya and she’s certain he wouldn’t send something so sentimental. Whoever sent it, it’s been much appreciated. She’s kept it on her person ever since she found it in her mailbox. 

 

Home seems so far away.  

 

The mobile phone on the table starts wailing loudly, making her jump. The sudden movement causes wine to spill from her glass onto her legs and she curses as it soaks into her stockings. A few drops flick onto the postcard, staining the soft pink leaves a deep, harsh red. 

 

“Oh fucking hell!” she hisses, annoyed. Quickly, she places the glass and the postcard back onto the table and dabs at the card with her sleeve. The wine has already seeped into the paper and her blotting does nothing but worsen the stain. Her phone keeps ringing loudly, so she hastily snatches it up and stabs the pick up button with her forefinger. “Yes?”

 

Her tone is rude enough to make the person at the other end of the line splutter a little. “Miss Yagiri?”

 

“Yes,” she answers, throwing the sullied tissue onto the coffee table. “Who is this?”

 

“I don’t think we’ve met before - my name is Kine.”

 

The name rings a bell, but she can’t quite place where she has heard it before. “Okay. What do you want?”

 

The man at the end of the line sighs irritably. In the background, she can hear someone else talking gently. It sounds like a woman. “Hey, shut up a minute, I’m trying to talk to Namie.”

 

“You shut up!” the woman’s voice calls. 

 

Kine growls under his breath and she can hear footsteps, presumably him walking away from the noise. The background noise quietens to a gentle beeping sound. “Sorry about her, she’s a nutcase.”

 

“You both seem so. Please could you tell me why you are calling me Mr Kine?” Namie asks, brow furrowing in confusion. 

 

“I was instructed to call you by Izaya Orihara.”

 

Namie feels her guts tighten and all the moisture in her mouth seems to dissipate. “Why?”

 

Kine sighs again and she can hear him swallow thickly. “He’s- he’s a fucking idiot. He tried to kill Heiwajima and ended up-”

 

“Is he dead?” she asks, quietly. Her heartbeat pounds so loudly in her ears that she can barely hear Kine’s response. 

 

“No,” he says. She can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “He’s alive. Barely, but still alive. We’ve taken him to a doctor outside of Ikebukuro. It’s serious, he hasn’t woken up yet. Before he passed out in the car he asked us to call you.”

 

Namie lets out a breath and tries to stave off the sadness threatening to spill out from inside. “Why?”

 

“He wanted to say-” Kine pauses, sighs again as if he can’t quite believe he’s saying the following words. “He wanted to say he misses you. And he hopes you like the picture.” 

 

The woman’s gaze drops to the postcard, to the blood-  _ wine  _ splattered across the front and barely has to think before she says, “Send me your location. If he wakes up tell him I’m on my way.” 

 

Namie doesn’t wait for Kine’s response, she hangs up and lets the mobile fall to the floor. It’s only then that she lets herself cry. Cry for herself, because she’s too far gone to ever be free of the life she’s created and she cries harder when she realises that she misses it. It’s  _ home _ . The child gang-lords, the supernatural monsters acting like humans, the humans acting like monsters, the beasts and the power she held there. Still  _ holds  _ there. She cries for Shizuo, who was undoubtedly forced into almost murdering someone. The last tear she sheds is for Izaya - she doesn’t spend too much time crying for him. It’s for the few slivers of honesty, for the loneliness she knows they share, for his stupid, idiotic, ridiculous-

 

Fresh tears fall for herself again, for falling in love with the evil little shit. 


	14. home/again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you've all enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! There will be an epilogue coming shortly after this chapter (probably tomorrow) which will be why this story is rated explicit.

It’s quiet, apart from the beeping. She’s sitting on the chair at his bedside, hands laced neatly in her lap. Her expression is as expressionless as ever to the unaware eye but Izaya knows her better than most. Probably better than  _ anyone  _ \- and yes, he is smug about that. To him, her eyes are slightly wider with sadness, her lips pursed in fury, though just a touch. She’s furious and upset and brimming with irritation but Namie’s  _ here.  _ She’s here with him and he can’t believe how good it feels. He would take countless beatings from Shizuo for another moment like this. 

 

“Hey, idiot,” she begins, swallowing audibly. “You drag me all the way back from America and you’ve nothing to say?”

 

He raises a brow, which is about all he can do at this point. Namie laughs and though the sound is unpleasant and grating, he wants to hear it again. 

 

“Well, I suppose you do you have your jaw wired shut. You know, I kind of like it. Maybe we could ask the doctor if we can keep it?” Namie chuckles, tapping her own jaw with her forefinger. Her smile stays for a fleeting second, then drops back into a hard line. Her brow furrows and her hand drops to cover his where it lays on the duvet. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? What did you expect from going up against Heiwajima - did you really expect to win? I suppose you did, you’ve never seemed suicidal to me.”

 

Izaya hums lightly. She starts to run her finger up the cast that’s encasing his arm. 

 

“You could have died, Izaya,” Namie says, softly. Her fingernails dig into the cast and he’s thankful for the shield or else it would have been extremely painful. The pressure still hurts and he groans from behind his set-in-place teeth. Namie looks up at him, eyes blazing with fury. “You are the most irresponsible little shit I have the displeasure to know! What if you’d died? I hate you, you- you-”

 

Her words break down. These are not like the tears he’s seen from her in the past, those were filled with anger and frustration. These are soft, gentle sobs that send shudders up and down her spine. She clearly doesn’t want him to see her crying, so she ducks her head and lets her hair fall over her eyes. Izaya notices that she’s cut it since he last saw her and it now rests just below her shoulders. It’s still as thick and shiny has before and he wishes he could raise his hand to run his fingers through it. Slowly, she collects herself and eventually raises her head. The only sign that she has been crying is the slight redness in the whites of her eyes. She sniffs and he wants to tease her for acting ‘so unladylike’.

 

“Didn’t I tell you I’d be pissed off if you died?” she sighs, rubbing the heel of her hand over one of her eyes. Izaya raises a brow and she huffs and rolls her eyes. “Yes, fine - I  _ know  _ you’re not dead. But you could have been. You’ve fucked up your body pretty badly, Izaya.”

 

The informant rolls his eyes in return as if to say ‘I’m well aware of that’. Namie can’t help but smile at his petulance - even when on the cusp of death Izaya remains the same. 

 

“You got Kine to call me. I know you won’t admit it but I think that you  _ wanted _ me to come back,” she continues, sliding her thumb across his cast. “You didn’t have to ask because you knew I would come. And if you didn’t have to ask then you always have the option to say ‘but Namie - I didn’t  _ ask  _ you to come back! It was entirely your decision’. Because that’s how you work, isn’t it? You talk, people make their own decisions. Except they don’t. You talk and there’s  _ always  _ a undertone, an insinuation. It’s subtle but strong enough to make people do what you want. You just spoke to those girls, then they killed themselves. Your lackey called to tell me you’re injured - I come running. You’re underhanded and awful - you know that?”

 

Izaya narrows his eyes. This talk is hardly making him feel better. If his jaw wasn’t wired shut he would have said ‘you’re so mean, Namie’. Despite the lingering fury in her eyes, she leans forward and gently presses her lips against his forehead. Izaya blinks, surprised by the sudden display of affection. Namie leans back and runs her fingers through his hair, a slight smile on her face. 

 

“Which is why I’m so pissed off that I-” she trails off, then takes a deep breath for courage. “That I might have some sort of, ugh, why is this so hard?”

 

The informant laughs, though the sound is muffled from behind his lips. 

 

“A long time ago I said I wouldn’t hold my breath whilst waiting for you to find something worthwhile to say,” Namie says, dropping her hand from his hair. “I’m tired of waiting for you so I think I’ll just talk instead. You also said ‘we were always supposed to end up here’. I understand what you mean, even if I do believe fate is a silly notion as well.”

 

He grins as best he can at her repetition of his words. That conversation seems like such a long time ago, so far away from here. 

 

“Anyway, enough with all this,” she states, firmly. Her expression is still placid and unfriendly but there’s an unfamiliar softness to her words that tell Izaya  _ something  _ has changed. Her cheeks flush and she talks quickly, as if she’s embarrassed. “You’re a horrible little bastard but I care about you. And I’m incredibly angry with myself for doing so and I’m not sure if this was your intention as part of some scheme and- and I  _ swear  _ I will slit your throat right now if that’s the case.”

 

By the time she’s stopped ranting, she’s red in the face and slightly out of breath. The woman calms herself down and lets out a breathy laugh. Izaya is staring at her with wide eyes, for once thankful that he doesn’t have to speak. Someone loves him, Namie Yagiri loves him and he doesn’t know how to feel. Unlike those girls who followed him with unwavering adoration, she is glaring at him with her arms folded, distaste pulling her mouth into a frown and wrinkling her nose. It’s intimidating and wonderful and Izaya doesn’t know what to do with himself. For all his proclamations, he is very inexperienced in this area. 

 

“I’m going to stay in your apartment until I find somewhere else. I presume we still have a business to run?” she asks, briskly. Izaya nods, then tilts his head to question the ‘we’. “You’re stuck like this for a while so I’ll take care of things at the office until you can talk and move a little easier. I can probably do your job better than you anyway.”

 

Izaya laughs and manages to force his mouth up into his trademark smirk. He looks at the smartphone that’s sitting on the bedside table and back at Namie. She catches on quickly and opens the Notes application so that Izaya can tap out a message. His fingers are shaky and he can’t move that well due to the casts around his wrists so he writes slowly. 

 

_ Very funny. I trust you won’t ruin my good name? _

 

“I’ll keep it as pristine as it already is,” she replies, sarcastically. The tension in her muscles eases and the hate in her eyes fades. “How are you feeling?”

 

_ Just dandy.  _

 

Namie snorts derisively. “Sure. Well, I need to go and drop my suitcases at your place. Jet lag is a pain, I need to get some sleep.”

 

Izaya furrows his brows.  _ Will you be coming back? _

 

“Of course I will,” she answers, grabbing her bag from the floor. “I just have a few things to sort out. Quitting my job for example.”

 

He feels his stomach turn nervously.  _ Will you be staying in Japan? _

 

“Yes. I have no plans to go back,” Namie replies. She smirks and tilts her head to one side. “Or did you already forget about my devastatingly embarrassing confession?”

 

She’s staying. Izaya doesn’t know if it’s love he’s feeling but the squirming in his belly, the way his heart is beating, the way he can’t stop himself from smiling - it’s certainly something. It’s different, new, totally overwhelming. He stops himself from telling her he cares for her too. Namie might not believe him, he says he loves all humans after all. It’s not the right time, he wants to approach the situation carefully, he wants to try and be honest with her. How rare, he thinks, what an odd feeling. 

 

_ I missed you. I hoped that you would come home.  _

 

“Home,” Namie repeats, quietly. She stands up and moves her bag over her shoulder. For a moment she’s silent, staring out of the window at the city outside. Soon she snaps out of her daze and leans down to press another kiss on Izaya’s forehead. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

 

He nods and taps out another message before she turns away.  _ See you soon. Get some sleep, you look dreadful. _

 

Namie rolls her eyes and saunters out of the room. He’ll never change, she thinks. 

  
  


-0-

 

 

The sakura is as beautiful as the postcard detailed. It’s the same tree, without a doubt. She’s watching it from across the river, leaning against a wooden fence that keeps people from falling into the small river between path and the tree. Namie reaches into her bag and picks out a cigarette. She lights it with a flick of her Zippo and hands it to the person who has stopped beside her without even looking at who it is. 

 

“It’s nice here,” she says, softly. The man takes her lighter and grunts in response. “Peaceful.”

 

“There ain’t no peace in this city,” he replies, gruffly. 

 

Namie turns her head to look at him and takes back the lighter he is offering her. He’s still wearing the same bartending uniform as he always did, his hair is still bleached, his sunglasses still in place. There are a few, obvious differences. A large burn covers the right half of his face, starting around his cheekbone and dipping beneath his shirt collar. She glances down and sees the same marks covering his forearm. Presumably it covers his entire right hand side, at least the area of his torso. Namie winces and pockets the lighter. 

 

“How are you?” she asks, turning back to look at the cherry blossom. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come and see you - I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”

 

“Been better,” Shizuo huffs a laugh and drews in a sharp breath of smoke. He holds it in for a moment before letting it ooze out of his mouth. “So, he’s alive then?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And he’s back in Shinjuku?” 

 

Namie nods and takes a drag of her smoke. “Yeah.”

 

The blond tenses up and curses under his breath. They stand together in silence for a moment, then Namie turns and leans her back against the fence. She opens her mouth but he speaks before she can. “Don’t apologise. This wasn’t your fault.”

 

“I know,” she replies, quietly. “But I could have stopped him.”

 

Shizuo shakes his head. “Nah, once Izaya puts his mind to something no-one can stop him.”

 

“Apart from you,” Namie says, turning her head to look at him. He smiles gently, the burn creasing around the dimple on his right cheek. “And that’s why he’ll never stop being obsessed with you.” 

 

He grimaces as he turns around and mirrors her position. “So are you back for good?”

 

“Yeah,” she answers, with a slight smile. “In the end, I couldn’t stay away. This place just calls you back, you know?”

 

“I understand,” Shizuo agrees, flicking the smoking butt of his cigarette onto the path. He glances sideways at her. “How is he?”

 

Namie shrugs and takes another drag of smoke. “Broken arms, fucked up spine. He’ll walk again with physical therapy, if he can be bothered. But aside from that, he’s the same as ever - annoying.”

 

Shizuo swallows thickly and shuts his eyes for a moment. She wonders if he feels guilty for what he did - part of her wants to tell him that there’s nothing to be sorry for. 

 

“I would have killed him had Vorona not stepped in at the last minute. I really would’ve. But things are different now. I don’t want to kill anyone, not even Izaya. I know he wanted to prove I’m a monster or something but I’m not and I- just tell him to stay out of my way,” Shizuo states, vacantly. Eventually he pulls himself together and gives Namie a pat on the shoulder before he turns to leave. “Be careful, okay?”

 

She nods and raises a hand so that her fingers cover his on her shoulder. “I will be. Izaya wouldn’t dare cross me. You might not be able to kill him, but I sure can.”

 

He laughs but it’s dour and unlike the pleasant sound she remembered. After a moment he slips his hand out from beneath hers and turns away, giving her a final wave. She waves back and makes note to get lunch or a drink with him some evening in the future. It would be good to start making friends. Perhaps she could see the Dullahan again too - maybe without her easily excited boyfriend. 

 

Namie turns back to the cherry blossom and silently watches the petals fall. Time passes, the sun falls below the horizon and the last cigarette in the packet dangles between her fingers. Slowly, she turns away from the tree and checks her watch - she should probably pick up dinner. Perhaps Ootoro. Izaya doesn’t whine so much about the exercises she makes him do if he knows he’s being treated. It will be a long, rough road but - but isn’t it always? Life is long and sometimes shit but it still continues and, for a brief moments of beauty like the one she’s currently experiencing, Namie would keep going. The woman chuckles to herself. Time seems to have move so quickly and yet, not at all. 

 

She lights the last cigarette and tucks the lighter back into her pocket. A satisfied smile spreads across her face as she takes in a drag of smoke and starts to walk down the path that leads to the city. The hum of the cars and the people vibrate around her and it is everything she’s always wanted. Namie Yagiri will always be a cold, ruthless woman but she’s finally found what she’s needed to feel whole. It’s not Seiji, or Izaya, or even Ikebukuro. It’s the knowledge that whatever happens, she’ll be okay. This is enough, she thinks, finally with a sense of certainty. This is enough. 

  
  



	15. epilogue (i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I did it again and wrote a final final epilogue to come after this one. epilogue (ii) will be a short one, just a simple conversation between Izaya and Shizuo in the park. I hope you enjoy part (i), it gets a bit steamy.

“Namie!” 

 

It’s been a year since she told him she cared for him but she still winces in irritation at the sound of his nasal whining. 

 

“Namie!” 

 

“What?” she snaps, spinning around in her office chair. “I had to finish an email to Shiki. It’s sent,  _ by the way. _ ”

 

Izaya sighs dramatically and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s looking out of the enormous windows that line one wall of their apartment, leaning heavily against the glass with one hand. It’s been a long time since the ‘incident’ and he’s improved a lot, even managing to walk medium distances unaided, but sometimes the strain makes exhausts him and she needs to force him to relax. They walked around Shinjuku in the morning and met with the Awakusu-Kai in the afternoon so he’d been on his feet all day. Namie can see his legs gently trembling from across the room but she doesn’t say anything. His physical state is still a sensitive subject and apart from the occasional ‘you okay?’ from Namie, they don’t talk about it. Izaya is a proud man and the loss of his former speed and agility affected him greatly. For the first few months of physical therapy he was dour and uncertain if he even wanted to get better. He said it was his comeuppance, a form of retribution but Namie was quick to snap him out of that mindset. These days he’s has a more positive outlook but there are moments where a flicker of pain crosses his face, or she catches him staring at the scars on his hips, and she knows that the fight - the  _ mistake _ \- is something he will never be able to forget. 

 

Something has changed in the way Izaya views his enemy, it seems that he has been able to separate the man from the monster he provoked that day. He still despises Shizuo, that much is obvious from the way his lip curls and his nose wrinkles when Namie mentions him, but he no longer goes out of his way to make the blond’s life miserable. At first Namie thought this may be due to trauma, that he probably didn’t want to be within fifty feet of the man who almost killed him but after they passed Shizuo in the street a few times she realised that couldn’t be the case. Izaya didn’t react when their paths crossed, in fact he seemed not to acknowledge Shizuo at all. The reaction was mirrored by Shizuo himself, they simply passed one another as if they were complete strangers. It was moments like this that made Namie realise Izaya has resigned himself to the fact that he  _ lost. _ It’s a ridiculous thought process - but then again, it is one of Izaya’s, so no surprise there - but he seems content. Shizuo beat him fair and square, that’s that. 

 

Shizuo sees the situation differently, he’s simply exhausted. He and Namie meet up from time to time to talk about their lives, current events and so forth. On the odd occasion Celty will join them. It’s an odd little friendship group, she thinks, but not at all unpleasant. It’s nice to have friends. Even if one of them tried to kill your partner and your partner stole the other one’s head. Such is life, it’s far too complicated to linger on for long. Izaya isn’t exactly  _ keen  _ on their friendship but he doesn’t say much as he knows there is very little he can do to stop it. Namie is happy with these people and Izaya doesn’t believe he has any right to dictate her life. Not anymore, anyway. 

 

Izaya shifts his weight to the other hip and slowly turns around to face her, a weary smile on his face. He looks tired but there’s no chance he’ll rest until  _ he  _ decides he wants to. “You’re so shrill.”

 

“And you’re annoying,” she retorts, folding her arms over her chest. “What do you want?”

 

“I’m hungry. Do you want takeout? I’ll buy,” Izaya says, pushing himself away from the window. He shakily walks toward the centre of the room where the sofas are and drops down into an armchair with a quiet grunt. “I set up the chessboard. Shall we have a game or two?”

 

Namie glances at the clock in the corner of her laptop. It’s getting late, the few other emails she needs to reply to and files that need sorting can wait until tomorrow, so she gives a short sigh and gets to her feet. “Sure. But don’t bitch when I beat you, like last time.”

 

“I blame my lack of finesse on the traumatic head injury I received last year.”

 

“You can’t blame everything on that.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“You blamed your ‘traumatic head injury’ when I caught you watching porn,” she drawls, rolling her eyes. 

 

Izaya grins at her as she takes a seat opposite him. “I suppose that could have been a bit of a fib.”

 

Namie scoffs and plucks the left rook pawn from the board. She taps it forward two spaces and gestures to the board. “Your turn.”

 

They sit in comfortable silence for a little while, both concentrating on the structure of the pieces to plan their moves in advance. They’re both excellent players so their games are often drawn-out but it’s not like they mind. Quite the opposite, to find a player of equal competence is a welcome challenge. Izaya chuckles as he takes the first bishop from Namie’s side. 

 

“Speaking of traumatic head injuries,” he begins, peering up at her. “I saw Shizu-chan again today.”

 

She raises a brow, more at the ominous statement than the loss of her piece. “And?” 

 

“It was really quite odd,” Izaya continues, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa. “We noticed one another on the pavement, walking in opposite directions, and he just  _ nodded _ at me.”

 

“Nodding isn’t strange, Izaya. It’s what normal people do to acknowledge one another.”

 

Izaya shakes his head and his lips curve down into a frown. He looks perplexed, the simple gesture clearly confused him. Namie sometimes wonders if he is an extraterrestrial due to his lack of normal emotion. “Not me and Shizu-chan. We’ve spent the best part of a decade trying to kill one another and now he just  _ nods  _ at me in the street like I’m an acquaintance? Preposterous.”

 

She rolls her eyes and moves a rook three steps across the board. “Check.”

 

Izaya frowns - she can either take his queen or he’ll remain in check. There are no other pieces he can put in the way, so he moves his queen with a growl. “Good move. I presume these niceties have been encouraged by you during your little pow-wows with Shizu-chan?” 

 

“I’ve requested civility, that’s all. I don’t think your body could take another round with him,” she answers, leaning forward. 

 

He purses his lips and leans back against the cushions, folding his arms petulantly across his chest. “I agree with the latter sentiment. However I don’t understand your motives. From the gleeful look in your eyes when you forced me through physical therapy I thought you would be elated at the prospect of Shizu-chan causing me more damage.”

 

Namie takes his queen with her rook and casts the conquered piece beside the board. The woman glances up at him through her lashes and scowls. “Why would I want that? I love you, you idiot. I’d rather see you alive and well.”

 

Izaya’s mouth falls open but he seems to be unable to find any words to say. It’s the first time she’s said  _ it _ and frankly it startles him. He’s spouted that word so many times in the past that he had thought it would have lost its meaning by this point but Namie’s admission has it sparking some newfound wonder in him. A small smile spreads across his face, he can feel heat over his cheeks and he almost laughs out loud when she flicks over his king and says;

 

“ _ Checkmate _ .” 

 

If he had his former mobility he would have leapt across the table and into her arms but she moves for him and sits astride his lap, fingers curling into his hair. 

 

“You’re a pain,” she mutters, the softness in her voice stripping all insult away. Izaya hums with satisfaction when her fingernails gently scrape over his scalp. “But I like having you around. So don’t you  _ dare  _ get yourself hurt like that again.”

 

“Namie,” he murmurs, tilting his head up to peer up at her. “You’re so mean.”

 

She laughs and the sound he used to find so grating is pleasant. “And you’re insane.”

 

“Says y-“ he’s cut off by her lips crushing over his. She fists his hair a little harder and he grinds his hips desperately up into her. There’s a touch of pain but it only adds fuel to the fire so he slides one hand up her back and the other settles on the top of her thigh. Somewhere in the kiss he tells her that he loves her too but he’s unsure if she’s heard so he makes note to tell her again at every opportunity he gets. 

 

Some _ one,  _ not all humans. It’s different and boy, will it take some getting used to. Izaya is a selfish creature, he’s well aware of his own detriments, and his heart is a fragile thing but far be it from him to let worry consume him. Instead, he focuses on the anticipation. It’s been fun so far and he’s been absurdly honest for once, perhaps this -  _ Namie  _ \- is something he’s been missing. Whatever it is, it feels good and  _ fuck  _ when she grinds down into his crotch, it feels  _ so  _ good. 

 

“Bedroom?” he asks, panting for breath as he leans away. 

 

Namie’s hair is wild from where he’s been playing with it and the look in her eyes is just as feral. She reaches between their bodies and starts unbuckling his belt. “No, here.”

 

“So impatient,” Izaya chuckles, leaning back slightly to allow her to unbutton his jeans. She moves back and settles herself on the floor between his knees, tugging his jeans off as she goes. The sight of her there, flushed, with her mouth open wide, sends a shiver down his spine. He wishes he’d been honest with her from the start. “You’re so-”

 

“Shut up,” Namie orders. She pushes herself up and takes his cock in her hand, then begins moving her palm slowly up and down. The action creates glorious friction along his length and Izaya groans loudly, throwing his head back against the sofa. “You’re so much more agreeable when you’re like this.”

 

“Like what?” he mumbles, rocking his hips up to meet her movements. 

 

Namie laughs softly and swipes her thumb over the leaking head. Izaya lets out a short gasp and his eyes scrunch shut. “When you’re moaning too much to use that big mouth of yours.”

 

The informant chuckles, the sound too breathy to be taken seriously. “I’d appreciate it if you could use your big mouth and-”

 

He groans loudly when she slides her lips onto his length. The wet heat of her mouth is incredible, he has to press his hand against her forehead to halt her movement before he comes prematurely. Namie seems to pick up on this need and wraps her fingers tightly around the base of his cock, staving off the oncoming edge. It’s a tight hold, tight enough to make him hiss in annoyance but she carries on regardless, licking and sucking with that marvellous mouth of hers until he’s shaking with the effort it takes to stay in control. His lewd moans echo around the spacious room, it’s too hot, he wants to take off his shirt. When he cracks open an eye to look down at her he can see her free hand disappearing between her legs and the sight makes him bite down hard on his lip. 

 

“N-Namie,” he groans, pulling at her hair. “Stop now or I’m not going to last.” 

 

The woman pulls her mouth off him with a loud  _ pop.  _ She raises a brow and sits back, both hands settling on her lap. Her cheeks are tinged with pink and her skin slightly shiny with sweat but she looks calm and controlled compared to Izaya. She’s still staring at him like she wants to devour him and when she finally moves, crawling back up to straddle his hips, he feels the last strand of control he had snap. 

 

“So touch me,” Namie says. 

 

It’s an order, Izaya can tell and  _ oh _ is he happy to comply. He loops an arm around her waist and swings them round so that she’s underneath him. The action brings attention back to his sore muscles but it’s not the time to be worrying about such things, so he stifles his grunt of pain by pressing his lips against hers. Time to get the upper hand. Thank goodness Namie isn’t wearing that hideous green turtleneck today, the buttons of her shirt are much easier to undo and it’s simpler to get the material off her body and onto the floor. Izaya slides his hand beneath her waist and she arches her back so that he can reach her bra strap. For a moment he fiddles with the complicated latch, then he raises a brow at her. 

 

“Little help?”

 

Namie clicks her tongue but leans up and reaches behind so to easily undo the strap. “Amateur.”

 

“I shall endeavour to show you I am quite the opposite,” Izaya grins, he thrusts his tongue into her mouth and much to his delight she let out a surprised gasp. Namie feel him smile as he kisses her and it makes her warm with affection for the strange creature that she has fallen in love with. Izaya’s hand slides down her body then spreads out across her right breast. She sighs softly as he strokes her skin and Izaya pulls back from the kiss to move down torso until he’s situated between her knees. He grins wolfishly at her and runs his hands down the front of her thighs, up under her skirt until he reaches her hips. 

 

“Hurry up, would you?” she groans, twisting her hands into fists. “Aren’t you going to take my skirt off?”

 

“I’d rather leave it on,” he responds. Namie raises a brow in question and he shrugs in return. “Call it one of my preferences.”

 

“Kinks, you mean.”

 

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

 

Namie lets out a sigh as he takes his time sliding her underwear down her legs. She shivers when his fingers trail up her thighs and stroke the outer lips of her cunt. Izaya spreads her and he begins to slide her clit between two of his fingers. The woman takes in a deep breath and moans quietly, the sound shaky from the way his touches are affecting her. Izaya smirks, pleased that her face is starting to flush. He releases her from the kiss and whispers softly in her ear.   
  
"You are so wet already, Namie," he rolls his finger over her clit directly and grins smugly as she arches into him. Their relationship may have softened but it’s doubtful that either of them will lose their sarcastic, snarky attitudes entirely. 

  
The woman lets out a grunt as he pushes two fingers inside of her and begin to thrust them gently. It feels different, unlike his usual technique, he’s curling his fingers when they hit the deepest point and the sensation is incredible. Her legs twitch around his body and her back arches off the sofa. 

 

“Still amateur?” he asks, placing a kiss on the inside of her knee. She opens her mouth to reply with something dismissive but then he thrusts his fingers particularly hard and his thumb rolls over her clit and all that comes out of her mouth is a low groan, followed by a series of expletive filled gasps. Izaya chuckles and shifts his position, wincing slightly as pain shoots across his hips. He grits his teeth and ignores it, spurred on by the glorious noises she’s making. Namie’s eyes reopen when she feels his tongue flick firmly against her clit.   
  
"Ah - so a-amateur," she moans, her body twitching as he starts to simultaneously thrust his fingers and suck her clit into his mouth. His reaches around her thigh with his spare arm and presses down on her stomach, holding her in place as she writhes under him. Mistakenly, she glances down at him only to find his burgundy coloured eyes staring back. His gaze is filled with a mixture of adoration and self-satisfaction, he looks fascinated with the way she is reacting. As the pleasure grows stronger, she lays her head back and shuts her eyes, allowing herself to get lost in it. Unconsciously, her hands move to Izaya’s head and she digs her fingers into his soft hair, scratching her nails across his scalp. The man groans into her skin as she pulls at his locks, enjoying the feeling, and rolls his tongue harder over her.   
  
"A-ah, fuck!" she exclaims, gripping his hair roughly. Her legs shakes and he feels her walls clench around his fingers. Izaya’s name comes out of her mouth as a long whine then she shudders and screws her eyes harder together as pleasure washes over her. Izaya’s hand slows, his tongue laps lazily against her until it becomes too much for her sensitive clit to take and she pushes against his head. He leans back and crawls up her body, observing her flushed cheeks and the way she’s panting with a satisfied smirk on his face. As her breathing starts to even out, Izaya leans down and nuzzles into the side of her throat.    
  
"Doesn’t seem so amateur to me," he says against the skin of her neck before he bites it gently. "I watched a couple of videos to better my technique."   
  
"You're disgusting," she groans, still out of breath from the peak of pleasure.  _ That’s _ why he’s been watching so many ‘adult’ videos recently. 

 

Izaya feigns insult and pouts at her. “Well, I guess I did all that ‘research’ for nothing.”

 

Namie rolls her eyes and winds an arm around his shoulders so that she can pull him closer. “It was good, you smug little shit.”

 

He grins happily and pushes himself off the sofa, holding a hand out to Namie to take. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

 

She nods and gets to her feet, pulling her skirt down over her hips. Izaya leads and though he doesn’t mention it Namie notices that he’s moving a little awkwardly, legs stiff and clearly hurting. When they turn into the bedroom she slides her hands around his hips and pushes his shirt up over his head. The material is cast onto the floor by the bed as they both topple onto the covers. Namie swivels them around so she’s straddling his waist, hands planted on either side of his head. The informant smiles and wraps his fingers around her right hip. 

 

“Fuck me,” he says, bucking his hips up and Namie along with them. 

 

“Say please,” Namie replies, leaning back slightly so she can get a better look at him. The scars from the fight stand out against the pale of his skin. Many of the smaller ones have faded but there are a few deep purple lines still visible, around his hips and shoulders. He doesn’t seem self conscious of the scars, there are enough of them already on his body that these will fade in alongside the others in time. 

 

Izaya chuckles at the challenge. He’s lost control and he’s well aware of that but it’s far too fun to play submissive for him to change their positions. Instead his pushes himself up onto his palms and presses his face into Namie’s neck. 

 

“Please.  _ Please.  _ Fuck me,” the informant murmurs, kissing her throat after each word. He rolls his hips up into her and she shoves her hands onto his chest, forcing him flat back against the sheets. Izaya grins as she narrows her eyes at him. “Just ask and I’ll do whatever you want.”

 

“Really?” Namie asks, skeptically. She rakes her fingernails down his chest, stomach, until they reach his hips. “Fine. I want you to keep your hips down and let me use you as I please.”

 

“I think I can manage that,” Izaya replies, wryly. 

 

He lets his hands all back down to his sides and watches her closely as she lays her chest over his. One of her hands dips between their bodies to wrap around him, an action which makes Izaya groan loudly. Namie’s breath comes out hot on his face as she lowers herself down onto his cock. Her walls clench tightly around him then her ass hits his hips and she goes still for a moment, forehead resting on his shoulder. Namie lets out a low groan and starts to move, rocking herself back and forth so she can slide up and down his length. The informant watches her with a lustful, half-lidded gaze, taking in every marvellous inch of her body as she looms over him. She twists her hips and Izaya lets out a undignified noise, something between a gurgle and a whine. 

 

“Fuck,” she breathes, moving one hand up to rest lightly around his throat. “G-good.”

 

Izaya nods in agreement and closes his eyes as she continues to grind atop him. It’s taking a lot of willpower to keep from grabbing hold of her hips and fucking roughly up into her but Namie told him not to and right at this moment, he’ll do whatever she wants - so long as she keeps doing  _ that.  _

 

Namie lets out a shaky breath and clenches her hand hard around his throat. Her eyes screw together and her muscles tense around him and for a moment she goes rigid like a tightly wound spring. Izaya grinds his teeth together and lurches up, arms winding around her waist so that he can thrust rapidly up. The sudden change in pace sends Namie over the edge and when she lets out the most delicious whimper Izaya can’t stop himself from following quickly after her. They stay in that position for a while, arms wrapped around one another, sweating mixing on the surface of their skin. Eventually, Izaya falls onto his back and Namie follows, twisting off his body so that she can lay beside him. A gush of fluid pours out from inside her and she grimaces at the feeling. The informant laughs hoarsely at her reaction and opens up one of his arms so that she can rest her head on his chest. 

“Mm, they never show the gross parts of sex in the movies, do they?” he comments, stroking his fingers through her sweaty hair. “It’s all perfect passion and no dirty sheets to show at the end.”

 

“Mmm, ‘spose,” she replies, tiredly. Izaya’s gentle touches are only making her eyelids droop and soon she feels the heaviness of sleep pressing on her head. “That was fun. Tired now, gonna sleep.”

 

The informant smiles fondly at her and pulls the discarded covers over their entwined bodies. Namie barely stirs despite his movements. With a satisfied sigh he holds her closer and lets his eyes flutter shut. 

 

She thinks she hears  _ I love you too  _ on the breath of an exhale but she can’t be certain if she’s dreaming. 

  
  



End file.
